Death at the Château Bremont

by ML Longworth

  “Which equals power,” Marine said.

  “Exactly,” Paulik answered.

  Verlaque stared out the window and continued driving. He thought of what Madani, Étienne’s boss, had repeated: the godfather of Marseille, Fabrizio Orsani, had said that François was the “idiot brother.” The comment made Verlaque think of the film The Godfather. One has all the good and the other all the bad, as Marine had said of the two Bremont brothers. One brother: calm and intelligent. The other: wild and irrational. Verlaque thought of the faces of the two actors, and then said, “Bruno, I’ll buy you a magnum of Marc’s wine if you can tell me the name of the actor who played Sonny in The Godfather.”

  “James Caan,” Paulik replied, smiling.

  “Merde.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Greetings were exchanged and Verlaque introduced Marine as a professor of law at the university in Aix. Marine tried not to let it bother her—and even if they had been still a couple that’s how he would have introduced her. They were here on police business, investigating two deaths, one of which was definitely murder.

  Nagel seemed a little surprised that they declined the invitation to taste wine, but Verlaque assured him, “I will be buying a magnum of your Syrah.” He shot a nasty glance at Paulik, who in turn grinned from ear to ear. When they got inside, Marc’s wife, Véronique, was once again sitting at the desk. Verlaque explained the case so far and the discovery of François’s death early that morning.

  “How awful . . . He was so pleasant,” said Véronique, visibly distressed.

  “Really?” asked Marine, unable to hide her surprise.

  “Oh yes, he always behaved very politely,” Véronique replied. She paused. “But I did overhear him yelling at his mistress once. It made me uneasy.”

  “Really? You didn’t tell me about that,” said Marc. “But I agree—he was refreshingly curious. He wanted to know about the wine, how it is made, and especially about the life of the vineyard—the seasons and so on. He was quite intelligent. He kept the conversation limited to the weather and wine-making, though. I assumed because it was pretty clear that he was having an affair.”

  Marine thought for a moment, trying to remember François. Something was not quite right. She held up her finger and said, “The François I remember didn’t like wine, didn’t drink alcohol at all. Although people change.”

  “Oh, this one did!” exclaimed Véronique. “Not too much, mind you, but he really loved it. You could tell.” Marc nodded in agreement.

  Verlaque said nothing. Paulik reached into a file and slid a photo of François de Bremont, on his boat, across the wood desk to Marc and Véronique. “This is a recent photograph of him, just so we’re certain that we are speaking about the same man.”

  “Well . . .” Marc hesitated, picking up the photograph so that he and Véronique could get a closer look. “The sun is shining on him . . . I guess it could be. But his hair isn’t dark enough.”

  “I’m not sure that’s him. His shoulders weren’t that big,” Véronique said, biting her bottom lip. “That guy’s buff,” she added, whistling under her breath and grabbing the photograph to get a better look.

  “Are you sure?” asked Paulik. “You said he signed himself in as François de Bremont.”

  “That’s true, although come to think of it we never asked for an ID,” Marc replied.

  Verlaque said nothing and took another photo out of his file folder and gave it to the wine-making couple.

  “That’s him!” Marc exclaimed.

  “Yes, that’s more like it,” his wife agreed, smiling now.

  “Now I understand why you thought him interesting and intelligent,” Verlaque said.

  Marine shot Verlaque a puzzled look and reached for the photograph. Paulik leaned in toward Marine so that he too could see the photograph. It was a large black-and-white photo of Étienne de Bremont receiving his documentary film award in Paris.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Paulik said when they were out on the drive.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Marine added. She felt her heart give a hollow shudder. It had been years since she had spent much time with Étienne, but how could he have changed that much? An affair with Sophie Valoie de Saint-André? His wife’s sister, of all people! Marine thought of Isabelle de Bremont’s beautiful, fragile, newly widowed face that morning. It was almost too much to bear.

  “Nor can I,” said Verlaque. “Sophie Valoie de Saint-André is the last woman I’d want to sleep with.” He then added, causing Paulik and Marine to look at him in mild shock, “What a thin, uptight bitch.” He knew immediately that he had been too harsh, but he had someone else in his head, not Mme Valoie.

  “That solves the mystery of the VW Golf. Étienne obviously went and picked it up from Saint-Antonin before heading here on those Friday nights,” Paulik offered.

  The five of them were standing by the car, having stayed an extra hour to talk further with Marc and Véronique and to explain the secrecy and new urgency of this case. They had also made photocopies of receipts from all the nights Étienne and Sophie had spent at the Nagels’ B and B. “Étienne de Bremont may have died accidently,” Verlaque told the Nagels. “But his brother was murdered, so if you remember anything unusual about Étienne, could you please call us?”

  “Certainly,” the Nagels said in unison, Mme Nagel linking her arm around her husband’s and leaning in closer to him.

  “Come to think of it,” Marine said, “at the cemetery I noticed that Mme Valoie was taking it particularly hard. Some people cry more than others at funerals, but she was really in a state.”

  “How was Isabelle de Bremont?” Verlaque asked.

  “Stoic,” Marine replied.

  Paulik’s cell phone rang. As Paulik moved away to take the call, Antoine and Marine tried not to acknowledge the fact that they were standing within a foot of each other but with nothing to say. Verlaque finally got out his cell phone to check for messages, while Marine walked over to the vineyard.

  She looked at gnarled vines, marked by small, bright green leaves just beginning to grow. So much pleasure given to the world from such a small plant, Marine mused. “They’re old vines, these,” said Marc, who had come outside and was now standing beside her, smiling. Marine looked up at him. He had the tanned, weathered face and clear blue eyes of many the other vignerons she knew. “My grandfather planted these Syrah grapes in the late forties,” he continued. He had been looking at Marine, but now glanced across at the rows of vines. And Marine did too, thinking that vines often resemble the sea—row upon row of green.

  “You seemed upset when you saw the second photograph,” Marc said.

  “Yes,” replied Marine, not sure what to say. She paused for a moment and then added: “Life is so unclear at times. What you think you know, you don’t. You see, I knew Étienne very well, when we were young. We live in different social circles now, but I was still quite shocked to hear that he was having an affair with his sister-in-law. I guess I’m very prudish!”

  Marc continued looking at her, and then said, “I stopped a long time ago trying to second-guess people and their actions and motives.” He laughed and added, “It makes life easier, non?”

  Marine smiled and said, “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “And if this man, Étienne, was the honorable man that everyone says he was, this woman, Mme Valoie, must be more complicated than meets the eye,” Marc said.

  “Are all winemakers this wise?” Marine asked, laughing.

  “We spend a lot of time outside, thinking. I sometimes wonder if I don’t talk to the vines.”

  “I’m sure I talk to myself. It’s a teacher’s habit. You imagine that there is a roomful of students, listening.” The two laughed.

  “Am I interrupting something?” asked Verlaque, who had just arrived and was looking back and
forth between Marine and Marc.

  “We were talking about vines, and about people,” Marine said. “I suppose you’ll be interviewing Sophie Valoie now.”

  “Yes, as soon as we get back to Aix. Listen, I’m sure Marc doesn’t want us to talk shop. Marc—I’d like to buy that magnum now.”

  Marc hit his forehead and apologized. “Of course! Let’s go into the stables.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Marine said. Neither man acknowledged her comment, and so she turned and stared off into the vineyard again. The view of the hills was mesmerizing, and she vowed never to live in a landscape that was flat. She found herself thinking of Étienne, and it made her unhappy to have to replace the picture of Isabelle de Bremont in her head with that of her sister Sophie. What was he doing with her? And what was he doing in the attic that night? A knot formed in her stomach and she turned around to face the parking lot, the vineyards no longer able to calm her. She was anxious to get going to Cotignac, anxious to unravel the mysteries behind the two deaths. She started walking to the car, where Paulik was waiting, and Verlaque and Marc Nagel soon rejoined them.

  “Let’s get going,” Verlaque said, taking Marine’s arm and putting himself, Marine thought, purposely between her and the winemaker. Marc followed them to the car. They said their good-byes and thanked the Nagels for their help, and Marine turned to Verlaque, who was staring at her.

  Once in the car, Paulik leaned forward and spoke. “That was Flamant on the line. He’s heard back from the SNCF.” Marine turned to look at the commissioner, and Verlaque looked at him in the rearview mirror. “And?” he asked.

  “Isabelle de Bremont went to Paris on Saturday morning on the 10:42. She came back on Sunday morning.”

  “Why would she lie about that?” Marine asked.

  “She must be protecting the person in Paris who would provide her alibi. She told me that she was in Aix, with her sister, the night Étienne died,” Verlaque answered.

  “I still don’t understand,” Marine said, looking at both men. She then sighed and said, “Ah. An affair. But why not just say so? Is he married? Is he famous? He would at least give her a truthful alibi. Surely that would be more important?”

  “You would think so,” Verlaque answered. He thought of the crucifix and the Madonna in Isabelle de Bremont’s salon. The three remained silent for some time. The continuous fields of olive trees and vineyards finally made Marine restless, and so she began to speak. “Has Jean-Claude Auvieux’s sister been told about what happened this morning?”

  “Yes and no,” replied Bruno. Marine turned around to see him still cradling the magnum in his arms. “A local cop called in at her salon this morning and told her to go home, and that we would be visiting, but that’s all she knows. I’m not even sure how well she knew François de Bremont.”

  “Oh, she knew him all right. At least when we were young. They were thick as thieves,” Marine answered.

  Verlaque looked at Bruno in the rearview mirror. “You can put the bottle down on the seat beside you,” he told his officer.

  “It’s fine like this,” Bruno replied. “Ask me more movie trivia.”

  “No, thanks,” said Verlaque, smiling.

  Verlaque slowed the car down as they approached Cosette Auvieux’s lotissement.

  “Depressing,” mumbled Marine.

  “No kidding,” replied Verlaque. “It would be bad enough to have to live in the Var, but to live in a place like this . . .” Verlaque’s voice trailed off as they stopped the car in front of the house. There was a small front lawn where Mme Auvieux chose to park her car instead of plant trees or flowers. She opened the front door before they had a chance to ring, and without words, Mme Auvieux motioned them into the house and closed the door behind them.

  “I hope you have a good reason for this visit,” she said, looking straight at Verlaque. “This is costing me good money at the hair salon”

  “We have a good reason, Madame,” Verlaque answered. “You remember the commissioner, I believe. And I think you may remember Professor Bonnet, Marine Bonnet, from Aix-en-Provence.”

  Cosette Auvieux squinted and looked Marine up and down. Without a smile, she offered Marine her hand and said, “I do remember you. You were always up at the château, playing with Étienne.”

  “Yes,” Marine answered. “I played with your brother too. I saw Jean-Claude a few days ago, and he reminded me of the time François broke the window in the salon.”

  Mme Auvieux smirked and rolled her eyes. “Étienne broke the window, and François took the blame. It always happened like that.”

  Marine remembered what Jean-Claude had said, “And it wasn’t even François who broke the window! It was Étienne!” She was confused about this—in her memory it was clearly François.

  “Your brother, Mme Auvieux, is being questioned about a murder,” Verlaque said.

  “Who says Étienne de Bremont’s death was a murder? I thought he fell. Besides, any nitwit can tell that my brother wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he has an alibi—he was here with me.”

  “Jean-Claude has the bad luck to keep ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Verlaque looked at Marine, as if to give her her cue.

  “Cosette,” Marine said, “There’s been a second death at the château.”

  “Impossible!” Cosette Auvieux cried.

  Paulik and Verlaque exchanged looks.

  Marine continued, “François de Bremont is dead, found yesterday morning in the bassin in front of the château.”

  Cosette Auvieux’s face turned white, and she sat down at the kitchen table. Only then did Marine realize that they had been standing the whole time, waiting for an invitation to sit down that had not been offered. Mme Auvieux began suddenly to cry, covering her face with her hands.

  “Can we get you something?” Verlaque asked.

  Auvieux motioned to a bottle of marc on the kitchen counter. Verlaque caught Paulik’s wide-eyed expression at the choice of beverage. Marc, a distilled alcohol made from grape skins—much like grappa—was extremely high in alcohol, strong even for someone as big as Paulik.

  Marine sat down beside Mme Auvieux. “Cosette? Are you all right?” She wanted to put her hand on Cosette’s but hesitated. Cosette had begun to cry again.

  “I was very close to him when we were kids,” she said.

  “I remember,” Marine said. “Did you stay in contact over the years?” she asked.

  Cosette Auvieux looked at Marine as if she were crazy. “Of course not!” she snapped. “We lived in totally different circles.”

  “Professor Bonnet is right to ask these questions,” Verlaque said, suddenly protective of Marine. “François de Bremont’s death was a murder. That was confirmed this morning by the on-duty coroner. We need to question everyone who knew him—and you knew him, and your brother was present at the scene of the murder.”

  “All I know is that François lived on the Côte,” Cosette replied. “Did my brother see anything? Did anyone?”

  “No,” replied Verlaque. He did not tell her about the Mercedes with Côte d’Azur plates. “Your brother claims that he was in the olive grove at the time of the death. The two of them were going to go together to Étienne de Bremont’s funeral.”

  Marine leaned across the table and gently asked, “Cosette, would Jean-Claude have any reason to hurt the Bremonts?”

  “What? Are you insane?” Cosette Auvieux shrieked.

  Marine looked at Paulik and Verlaque.

  “Mme Auvieux,” Paulik said. “Your brother discovered both bodies. You must see why we have to ask you this.”

  “Will he be safe?” Cosette asked.

  “Yes,” Paulik answered. “We’ll have the château watched. Now, can you answer Professor Bonnet’s question?”

  Cosette leaned forward on the table and l
ooked at the commissioner for a good five seconds before answering. “No, he had no reason to hurt them. He didn’t hurt them.”

  “Thank you,” Paulik said. Cosette stood up for a moment, holding on to the table for support, but quickly sat down again, burying her head in her hands once more. “The two brothers . . . dead now.” She sobbed and then added, “You can see yourselves out,” as if it were an order.

  “She was more upset than I expected,” Verlaque said, looking over at Marine as they drove away. “She definitely didn’t seem this broken up about Étienne’s death.”

  “Cosette and François always did seem to have a special connection when we were growing up. I had forgotten how close they were. I suppose she hasn’t had an easy life, either. Her mother died of cancer when she was about sixteen. She immediately left the château after that, and came here to the Var to live with an aunt and go to hairdressing school. Jean-Claude was younger, so he finished high school and stayed on at the château. Their mother was lovely. I adored her. Beautiful and soft-spoken, and kind.”

  “The father?” asked Verlaque.

  “He left her, and the children, when Jean-Claude was a baby. Mme Auvieux was much loved by the Bremont family, so was invited to stay on. She ran the household and the kitchen.”

  “I take it her daughter doesn’t resemble her much,” Paulik said.

  “No, you’re right. But then she never did. Jean-Claude was more like his mother and was more attached to the Bremont family and the estate.”

  Paulik’s telephone rang and he answered with a “Salut, Fréd!” Marine was thinking of her childhood and of the people she had known and somehow forgotten. Verlaque startled her by asking, “Can you cancel your classes tomorrow? We’re halfway to the Côte. We could just drive straight there and question Bremont’s Cannes friends. It’s a little unorthodox taking a nonpoliceman with us, but tough. I can make up some reason.”