Death at the Château Bremont

by ML Longworth

  “I found it curious that Étienne didn’t cover the Russian Mafia in his film,” Verlaque said, taking some dark chocolate out of the cupboard and snapping off a piece, while cradling his cell phone between his shoulder and ear.

  “I did too, and I asked Étienne about that before he even began filming,” Madani answered. “But Étienne felt the film would be stronger if he concentrated on one city and its Mafia. As you know, the Corsican Mafia has always been based in Marseille, while the Russians are on the Côte d’Azur. Étienne loved Marseille.

  “Another thing,” Madani continued. “It was almost as if, and I don’t think it came across strongly in the film, Étienne had a love—non, that’s not the word—a respect for, or a weird curiosity about, the Corsican Mafia. That’s something I picked up from talking to him and seeing the footage before it was edited.”

  “And you’re sure Étienne never met Fabrizio Orsani?” Verlaque asked.

  “Fairly sure,” Madani said, “but, you never know. Étienne was easygoing and very pleasant, but he could also be secretive. Sometimes I felt as if I didn’t really know him, despite our working ridiculous hours side by side for over five years. But that’s maybe just human nature. Don’t you think so, Judge? We all have our secrets.”

  Verlaque lit his cigar and took a few puffs before grunting his agreement. He thought of Paris, his parents, her eyes, orange-flowered sheets, tangled limbs, and betrayal. He thought of Marine running down the stairs before he had a chance to tell her his story. Surely what happened all those years ago hadn’t been his fault? He opened his eyes and stared at the Venetian painting in his dining room, gathering strength from it. He continued, now focused, “What was Étienne working on recently, before he died?”

  “Part two.”

  “Part two?” Verlaque asked.

  “Part two is a sort of behind-the-scenes look at the filming of the first one. He was getting ready to go to Corsica but then . . . then he died. I got a call from your commissioner, who is going to come watch the cuts. You can come too, naturally.”

  “Yes, perhaps I will. I really like Marseille,” Verlaque answered.

  “Great,” Madani answered, his voice getting louder with Marseillais pride. “I feel so sorry for you Aixois. What a dull place to live.”

  “It’s quiet, that’s for sure,” Verlaque agreed. “By the way, Mme Bremont told me her husband was hoping to make a commercial film and that his funding was turned down. Did you know about the film?”

  “Yes, and, to be honest, I wasn’t too pleased about it. I mean, I was happy for Étienne that he had a screenplay, and possibly some funding, but a feature-length film would mean that he would have to leave us. When it fell through, I was somewhat relieved. Terrible, non?”

  “Normal, Monsieur. I understand. And as far as you know, he never got the funding?”

  “No, I don’t think he did,” Madani answered. “He was quite glum for a few weeks, but recently he was in better form. You know—happier.”

  “Thank you for this call, M. Madani,” Verlaque said before hanging up.

  Verlaque turned on the espresso machine that he had permanently set to make short, strong espressos. He could drink coffee anytime and still sleep like a baby, and he thought that people who claimed that they couldn’t drink coffee after three o’clock in the afternoon were hypochondriacs or at least very messed up. He dropped a sugar cube in the coffee and turned it about with a silver spoon, and then he did what he always did: he slowly licked the spoon, relishing the heavy, thick coffee sweetened with sugar. “Un bonbon,” he muttered. This single pleasure may have been the principal motivation behind his coffee consumption. He drank the coffee in two sips and set the demitasse in the dishwasher.

  The mohair plaid blanket that Emmeline always used to lay on her knees in the evenings had fallen off the sofa onto the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, he saw, on a bottom bookshelf, the photo album she had made—she had given one to each brother. He picked up the album and started flipping through the pages while still squatting. The photos were in color but many had faded. There were even a few Polaroids—Charles had bought Emmeline one of the first Polaroids on the market so that she could use it to keep track of her garden and her paintings. Verlaque remembered this photo—the old, bent-over gardener had taken it. It was of Emmeline and the two boys, Antoine and Sébastien, in her garden. This part of the garden, by the south wall, Emmeline had designed using dozens of varieties of flowers—all of them white. Verlaque had forgotten that. The garden faced south, on an acre of flat land, and it always seemed sunny to Verlaque, although he realized that they only went into the garden when it was sunny. When it rained, which was often, they stayed in the house, playing board games. The red brick wall that surrounded the property looked small and weather-beaten. It had seemed so tall and mighty when Verlaque was young. The wall ran around the entire property. The north side of the house was always damp and in shadow and it backed up against a hill, a sort of no-man’s-land. One only went behind the house to fetch wood or to walk up into the village. Set into the brick wall was a green wooden door through which one could head up a flight of stone steps and onto the main street of the village of Saint-Germain-le-Vasson that housed the boucher, pâtissier, boulanger, and the tiny school that Verlaque had attended for one year when Emmeline had taken him—saved him—from Paris.

  He turned the pages and came to another photograph—one of him with his parents on either side. He couldn’t remember how Sébastien had wormed his way out of being in that picture. His father’s face was strained, as if the sun was in his eyes, but it wasn’t sunny. His mother’s smile was faked, and her body straight, poised, and thin, as it still was. She was a beauty, but she had married for money, the money of Charles and Emmeline, and everyone, even the boys, knew it. Verlaque’s father, shortly after the wedding, began having a string of mistresses; some of them Antoine and Sébastien met. The boys would regularly have lunch with their father at Café de Flore in Paris, and one of the girlfriends would often show up, supposedly out of the blue, but it was obvious to the boys that the encounter had been planned beforehand. It never bothered Verlaque—the women were always fantastic looking, and, unlike his mother, they doted on him and Sébastien. He sat on the floor, his legs stretched out before him, puffed on his cigar, and recited aloud, in English: “They fuck you up, your mum and dad. / They may not mean to, but they do. / They fill you with the faults they had / And add some extra, just for you.” It wasn’t his favorite Larkin poem, but it suited the moment, and his parents. Parents, thought Verlaque. Nobody has said anything about the parents of Étienne and François. It was as if they never existed.

  He closed the album and thought of his father, who was approaching seventy—Verlaque assumed that the girlfriends had stopped. His parents were somehow still together, but they lived very separate lives in Paris. His father had always seemed happier in Normandy, and Verlaque kicked himself for not suggesting that they go to Emmeline’s house together more often. At first Verlaque hadn’t mentioned it, because he knew it would be emotionally too difficult for his father, but Emmeline had been dead for over six months now, and the house was still sitting empty. He looked at his watch—it was after eleven, too late to call his father in Paris.

  He got up and called Marine’s cell phone, but she wasn’t answering. His bewilderment at her abrupt departure was slowly turning into anger. Why hadn’t she told him the truth about why she was leaving? He knew, after being with her for over a year, that she was extremely organized, and it was unlikely that she had papers to grade so late in the evening. She had run down the stairs so fast—as if she were fleeing something terrible. He had said nothing out of place; he had done nothing wrong. He poured himself a large glass of Vichy sparkling water. Vichy wasn’t his favorite brand, but one of the funnier detectives in Aix, Pierre Minard, had studied all the different sparkling waters and come to the conclusion
that Vichy, with its high level of bicarbonates, was the best to ward off a hangover. He laughed out loud when he thought of Minard, leaning drunkenly over the bar at a policemen’s party and, while the other officers yelled out brand names, replying with each water’s level of bicarbonates, which he had memorized. Verlaque poured himself a second glass, forcing himself to drink it—he hated water—when his cell phone rang. He ran to it.

  “Antoine Verlaque,” he said, not recognizing the number.

  “Coucou, chèri,” said a voice with a thick English accent.

  “Hey, I was just thinking of you,” Verlaque said, lying.

  “You were not, you liar,” she answered in English. “Did you already forget about me? We spent the night together only last week. I usually don’t travel around to see lovers—they come and see me. You’re a very lucky judge, Judge.”

  Verlaque remembered their night; it had taken him two days to recover. Emily was, Verlaque thought, at least un bon coup.

  “Listen, I’m on my friend’s cell phone, she doesn’t have much battery left,” Emily said, not waiting for Verlaque’s reply. “When can you come up to Paris?”

  She was obviously in a restaurant—it was noisy in the background. Verlaque could here plates and glasses rattling. He missed Paris. “I don’t know when I can come up to Paris,” he answered, “I’m in the middle of something right now. But I have another idea. How about Normandy sometime soon?”

  “Where? Did you say Normandy? On the coast, at least? Deauville?”

  “No, inland, a little village called Saint-Germain-le-Vasson. I think you’d like it. I can’t hear you very well. Where are you?”

  “Georges,” she answered. Verlaque loved Georges—it was the best thing going in the Centre Pompidou. He could eat a great meal at the top-floor restaurant and not feel obligated to look at the modern art. He liked few contemporary painters, with the exception of Pierre Soulages.

  “Well, listen, I’m sure your Saint-Germain in Normandy is lovely,” she said. He could hear laughter in the near background. “But I have to stay in Paris for the next few weeks. I’m writing an article on luxurious French hotels. Call me! Promise to call me! Ciao!”

  “Bye, Emily,” he said, hanging up his cell phone. He tried Marine’s number again—no answer. While plugging his cell phone in to charge overnight, he saw the pile of what had been the contents of his pockets: various keys, coins, cigar bands, and the receipt from lunch at Lotus. He turned the receipt over and saw Caroline’s cell phone number, and then walked over to the garbage can. He looked at the number again, walked back, picked up his cell phone, and entered her number in his directory.

  He turned off the living room lights and walked down the hall toward his bedroom, stopping in the bathroom to brush his teeth. He grabbed his toothbrush and looked around for the toothpaste. He couldn’t find it. Voilà, he said to himself. He saw a Vogue that he didn’t remember seeing before—it must have been buried in the basket beside the toilet with the other magazines—and he moved it and found the toothpaste. As he was brushing his teeth he looked at the Vogue, and then he saw the address label. He closed his eyes, now understanding why Marine had left so hastily. “Too complicated,” he said aloud. Exhausted, he walked into his bedroom and took off his clothes, leaving them uncharacteristically in a pile on the floor, and fell into bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Verlaque saw Marine by the roundabout, straining to see into each car that passed. The sun was shining on the windshields, making it difficult to see the drivers. He was driving an unmarked police car, so he slowed down, flashed the light blue Clio’s lights once, and pulled up to the roundabout. He watched Marine walk toward the car. Two university-aged boys, smiling, also watched her. Verlaque grinned—he liked to see men staring at Marine. She’s beautiful, he thought, almost saying it out loud. Marine’s black crepe de chine dress clung to her in an unconscious way, making her beauty all the more irresistible.

  Paulik got out of the passenger side and squeezed his large frame into the backseat. Marine quickly got into the front. Verlaque saw that her eyes were puffy. He put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” She and Sylvie had stayed up late, Sylvie forcing Marine to drink gallons of water while the two of them goofed around on the Internet, looking up Lady What’s-Her-Name. Thanks to Sylvie, Marine didn’t feel ill this morning—at least from the alcohol. Her stomach was turning at the thought of seeing Lady Emily’s photograph in British Vogue online, wearing a tiny bikini in Saint-Tropez. What were the chances that Verlaque would find one of the few thin English women? Or perhaps they were thinner in general than their American cousins. Judging by the tourists who walked around Aix, American women were almost invariably large, clutching liter-sized bottles of water to their breasts. Why didn’t they just order a coffee and a carafe of water in a café? But then Marine remembered one of Sylvie’s many theories about Americans: they were extremists, either overweight or thin and muscular, beer drinkers or teetotalers, overeaters or obsessed with eating only foods that contained no fat. Perhaps the English were the same way.

  “So, what do you remember about Cosette Auvieux?” Verlaque asked, looking over at Marine.

  “Not much,” Marine answered. “I should remember her better, considering how much time I spent up at the château. She always seemed to be lurking in the corner or off with François. Do you really think I can help? What if she doesn’t remember me?”

  “It might not matter. I somehow think she’d prefer to be questioned by a woman,” Paulik offered.

  “I agree,” Verlaque said. “Plus, you make people feel good.” Verlaque looked quickly over at Marine, and then back at the road. “Most of the time,” he whispered.

  Marine’s heart sank. She began doubting herself and her stupid compulsive behavior. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation for the Vogue magazine. A cousin from England, perhaps? She didn’t respond—she didn’t want to argue in front of Bruno.

  Marine frowned and asked, “Does Cosette have an alibi for yesterday morning?”

  “Yes,” replied Paulik. “She was in the Bar Centrale in Cotignac at eight, having a coffee. She had to open the salon early because her partner is off sick. The first client arrived just before nine.”

  Verlaque said, “Before we visit Mme Auvieux, we are going to visit my friend Marc, who owns a winery near Cotignac. Paulik and I discovered, on our last visit there, that François de Bremont is having an affair—was having an affair—with Sophie Valoie de Saint-André.”

  “Are you nuts?” Marine asked in amazement.

  “Strange couple, I agree. But they had been spending every other Friday night at Marc’s B and B since January.”

  “This is going to be a strange afternoon,” Marine said. “Should I be taking notes?”

  “I’ll take notes,” Paulik answered.

  “Bruno,” Verlaque asked, “can you tell us now what’s going on in Cannes?”

  “François de Bremont has been suspiciously friendly with a man called Lever Pogorovski,” Paulik said, pronouncing the Russian name slowly while looking at Verlaque and Marine.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of your Pogorovski,” Verlaque said.

  Paulik rolled up his sleeves and leaned even farther forward between the two front seats, excited to be the bearer of information. He took out a small notepad and began reading: “Lever Pogorovski, Georgian, born 1952. Holds Canadian citizenship, as does his wife, Maria. In 2001 they bought the famous Villa Nina in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, on the Côte d’Azur, for one hundred million euros.” The commissioner paused here, waiting for, and getting, the appropriate gasps from his audience. He continued: “Two months after, they bought a chalet in Megève for 3.2 million. The following year, they purchased a ski resort in the mountains behind Nice—13.7 million. For his wife’s fiftieth birthday he had
a miniature Taj Mahal built on their terrace.” Verlaque snorted and Marine laughed out loud. Paulik continued, a little perturbed at the interruption: “They spent sixty-eight thousand euros that night for the fireworks and ten thousand euros for the flowers. He has a Swiss lawyer in Zurich and a company called Astro Holding, located in Luxembourg, which in turns owns his oil company, Comgaz.”

  “Has he ever been arrested?” asked Verlaque.

  “No,” answered Paulik, “he’s clean—in fact Boris Yeltsin’s daughter Tatyana is a frequent guest at Villa Nina. But my cousin Fréd confirmed for me this morning that he is high up in the Russian—in this case Georgian—Mafia. Plus,” Paulik continued, “Pogorovski’s wife owns a modeling agency in Nice. And guess who works there from time to time?”

  “François de Bremont,” said Verlaque.

  Marine threw up her hands in disgust. “That’s incredible. How did we let that happen? How could a bunch of Russian crooks be running the Côte?” Marine asked.

  “It’s been happening since the late nineteenth century,” said Verlaque. “Czar Nicholas’s widow, Alexandra, was among the first wave of Russians to discover the Côte d’Azur.”

  “True,” Marine answered, annoyed. It was so irritating when Verlaque pretended to know more about history than she did. “But she wasn’t selling heroin.”

  “No,” said Verlaque, “but she did throw some really good parties.” The three laughed. “Go on, Paulik—how is François de Bremont involved?”

  “The Cannes police told me that for the moment he’s only involved, or was only involved, in booking dates for the Russian girls. Whether they were just escorts, or high-end prostitutes, isn’t yet clear. Their clients were Russian and French. Both my cousin Fréd and Pellegrino—the cop who plays polo—confirmed that whenever François de Bremont’s name is mentioned among the Mafia or even between policemen, it’s always with a sigh and some foul words. Fréd said it best: ‘François is more of a pest than anything else, but a pest with good connections.’”