by ML Longworth
Tatiana looked at Marine and drew her incredibly long legs up under her chin. She looked out at the sea and then at Marine and answered, “Yes, of course I knew François. He helped us, the models, at the agency.”
“Was he dating your friend Natassja?”
Tatiana tilted her head back and laughed. “No way!” For a moment Tatiana sounded like an average French girl, and not a highly paid Russian model. Marine smiled to encourage the girl to go on, which she did. “Natassja was in love with her childhood sweetheart, Ivan. He’s a schoolteacher in their hometown in Kazakhstan.”
Marine could not hide her surprise.
“You’re surprised that a supermodel would want to date a schoolteacher, non?” Tatiana asked.
“You’re right, I guess I am surprised, and I don’t know why,” Marine admitted. “Is that why Natassja was so homesick?”
“Of course.” It occurred to Marine that the two Russians she spoke to today both had the habit of beginning their sentences with “of course,” much as the French tend to say mais oui when the answer is an obvious one.
“Why didn’t Natassja go back to Russia, then?” Not getting an answer, Marine repeated her question. “Tatiana, why didn’t Natassja go back home?”
“She just couldn’t, that’s all. She was a model. She had obligations.”
Marine interrupted. “What obligations? She could quit modeling, non?”
Tatiana paused for a few seconds before answering. “Hey, it’s really hard to quit this kind of money once you’re used to it.”
Marine continued, moving her face closer to Tatiana’s. “But Natassja was so sad that she took her own life. Surely she would have given up the big salary to be with the boyfriend? She would have chosen love over money, non? Life over death?”
“You sound like a professor, Professor.”
Marine smiled and said, “You’re not going to tell me why Natassja couldn’t quit modeling and end her contract with Tribeca, are you?”
Tatiana smiled sheepishly and shook her head back and forth. Marine said, “Look, Tatiana, here’s my card again, with my cell phone number on it. I’ve written down a judge’s name and phone number on it as well. He’s very nice and very wise. We can help you if you need it, okay?”
Tatiana put the card in a zippered pocket in her hooded sweatshirt, and it was only then, while watching the girl get her earphones out of her pocket, that Marine noticed her stomach.
“Tatiana, are you pregnant?” No model could have a stomach like that. Marine, not an expert in such things, estimated that she must be four to five months along.
The model smiled and rubbed her stomach. “Yes. It wasn’t planned, but we’re crazy happy.” Seeing Marine’s concerned look, she said, “Don’t worry, I have a boyfriend, and he’s French. He’s a soccer player on the Nice team.”
The Russian smiled once more at Marine and jumped off the bench and began a slow jog toward the eastern end of the promenade.
An elderly couple, towels in tow, walked past Marine toward the sea. The Côte d’Azur, despite the glitz, seemed like a healthy place to retire. She thought of the old woman in the restaurant, devouring with much glee her plate of oysters. A thud caused Marine to stop her daydreaming. She looked to her right—it was only another jogger who had just hopped off the bench next to hers and who was jogging in the same direction as Tatiana.
Chapter Twenty-two
The cours Mirabeau felt dark to Marine as they drove up it, toward the statue of King René. The leaves of the plane trees, although brand new, managed to form a tunnel over the sidewalks and street. To add to the gloom, it was an overcast day, weather that was getting more and more frequent in Aix as of late. Marine thought of the palm trees that lined the Mediterranean, and suddenly she missed that wide expanse of water. As if reading her mind, Paulik said, “We need a body of water in Aix. We don’t even have a river. At least Avignon and Arles have the Rhône.”
Verlaque smiled and nodded in the direction of the rounded, knoblike fountain on their left, and said, “We have La Moussue.” One of the four fountains that punctuate the middle of La Moussue, “Old Mossback,” was an eighteenth-century moss-covered stone fountain whose warm waters steamed in the cold air during Aix’s winters. Marine’s father, as a child, had fetched its healing water for his mother to drink, to cure her aches and pains, and today most Aixois casually dipped their hands into the tepid water as they passed by, almost out of habit. Sylvie had once compared the fountain to an old, wet dog—steamy and pungent.
“If you want water, the sea is only thirty minutes away, in Marseille,” Verlaque offered. The mention of Marseille was met with two sets of exaggerated groans. Verlaque, a newcomer to the south, quite enjoyed that city, both for its natural beauty on the sea and for its blatant refusal to cater to tourists. It’s France’s Genoa, he thought.
On the drive back, Paulik and Verlaque had told Marine what they had learned from their visit to the casino in Cannes: virtually nothing. At least not anything they didn’t already know: François de Bremont had gambling debts, and to protect the young count the casino manager had actually barred François from playing the card tables. Lever Pogorovski was a frequent joueur, as were other prominent Russians; his wife, however, had never set foot inside the place. Marine had listened to their narrative, and then said, “I got basically the same noninformation out of Tatiana, except that Natassja Duvanov was in love, but not with François, nor a footballer or a tycoon, but a schoolteacher back in Kazakhstan. Tatiana, on the other hand, is dating a footballer, and they’re expecting a baby.”
“Natassja killed herself over a schoolteacher?” Paulik asked suspiciously.
“There’s some opera for you, Bruno,” Verlaque said.
“For some reason she felt that she couldn’t go back to Russia,” Marine corrected both men.
“Why didn’t she just hop on a plane?” Paulik asked, returning to his role as a policeman and no longer dreaming of La Wally.
“That’s what Tatiana couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me,” Marine answered.
Verlaque inched the car along the busy rue d’Italie, careful not to hit elderly shoppers, little dogs, or inattentive teenagers. They turned right on Marine’s street, and as they passed by the boutique Agnès b. Marine managed to peek at the colorful new collection displayed in the window. Verlaque stopped the car in front of her apartment, and the two men both got out and gave Marine the bises good-bye. Paulik then got into the passenger seat, and Verlaque stayed outside. He stared at Marine before saying, “When can we resume our state of the union conversation?”
“Not tonight, Antoine. I’m seeing Sylvie,” Marine said truthfully. It wasn’t exactly a conversation, Marine thought. It was mostly Antoine mumbling to himself and trying to seduce her.
“Fine,” he answered, with shortness of breath. His voice and face then relaxed, and he said, “Thank you for coming to Cannes. You were a great help.”
“C’est normal,” Marine replied. “Étienne and François were close to me, once upon a time. Please let me know if you need anything else. I’d be happy to help.” She put her key in the door and then added, smiling, “Next time, let’s do the Carlton properly.”
Verlaque laughed out loud, a proper gut-felt laugh that Marine hadn’t heard come out of his mouth in ages, and he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. They were both startled by how nice the kiss felt, and by a sharp honking coming from a black two-door BMW that had just pulled up behind Verlaque’s car. The driver of the car, a young male, who sported the slick black hair and gold chains favored by young hoodlums in the South, gestured madly with his hands in the air. Verlaque slowly walked to his car, not acknowledging the youngster. “While you were saying good-bye, Sergeant Arbadji, who taught the computer session in Cannes, returned my call. Pellegrino was there, but they took attendance after lunch, not before.”
“He also also volunteered that he had looked for Pellegrino during the morning session and couldn’t find him. Arbadji had wanted to ask him something about a report Pellegrino was working on.”
“So he would have had time to go from Cannes to St. Antonin and back. Let’s call him.”
Paulik nodded and dialed the officer’s number, listened for a few seconds, sighed, and then left a message on his answering machine. He turned and said, “Where are we going with this?”
“I’m not sure. What if Pellegrino gets paid to do something more than just play polo? Does he help Pogorovski? The Russian plays polo, too, come to think of it.”
“For the love of the game? Pellegrino takes polo pretty seriously, no? Could he have killed François over that match?”
“That’s a little extreme. I doubt it. What about over a girl?”
“Ah, oui. Could they both have been in love with the same beautiful blonde? I did think it was weird that he told Marine he couldn’t keep the Russian girls’ names straight. Wouldn’t you be able to remember their names?”
Verlaque smiled and nodded. “You bet I would. There’s no way I would confuse an Iréna from a Natacha.”
Paulik dropped Verlaque off at the Quatre Dauphins fountain; Verlaque had decided to find out where the Valoie de Saint-André family lived and to pay madame a visit.
Verlaque walked up the rue du 4 Septembre, lost in thought, smiling to himself as he passed by the sputtering Moussue, and walked into Le Mazarin. As usual with the Mazarin, one couldn’t go in unless prepared to take five minutes to greet and shake hands with about half of the patrons, which Verlaque now did. Finally he saw Jean-Marc Sauvat standing at the bar, nursing a coffee, and the two men gave each other the bises and pats on the back. They spoke for a few minutes about Jean-Marc’s current court case, and then both began complaining of the mayor’s new plans to build a shopping mall at the bottom of the cours. After a few more minutes, Verlaque leaned in closer to Jean-Marc and asked, “Do you know where Judge Valoie de Saint-André lives? I know that he commutes from Aix to Marseille.”
“Sure,” Jean-Marc answered. “I thought everyone knew,” he said, grinning. “They live in the Hôtel Guimard, just north of the cathedral.”
Antoine thought for a moment and said, “I walk by it almost every day. I’ve always wondered who lives there. Nice place.” The three-story mansion boasted two things many downtown residents coveted: a walled-in garden and parking.
“Sophie de Valoie, and her sister Isabelle de Bremont—what’s their background? Are they from Aix?” Verlaque asked, knowing that Jean-Marc, like Marine, knew Aix inside out.
“No,” Jean-Marc answered. He took a sip of coffee and continued: “The sisters are from a noble family from Nantes. They moved down here with their parents when they were in their teens. There’s a third sister, Clothilde, who married a de someone-or-other as well. Gossip was, when we were in high school, that they were nobles with no money or property, and the parents had moved the family to Aix to marry the girls into wealthy, propertied families. I guess all the chichi guys in Nantes were taken.”
“Their parents must’ve been happy,” Verlaque said, sarcastically.
“The girls certainly delivered, non? At least on the property side of things,” agreed Jean-Marc.
“Does Clothilde still live in Aix?” Verlaque asked. He thought about Jean-Marc’s reference to the de. Verlaque’s parents would have given anything for a title. He was convinced that they would have paid for it, if that was still possible.
Jean-Marc motioned for the bill. “No, Clothilde lives in Paris. Guess where?” he demanded. He then quickly added, “Or let me put it this way—if you had five or six million to spend on a Parisian apartment, and if noise and tourists didn’t bother you, where would you want it to be?”
“Place des Vosges?” Verlaque ventured, not needing a second to think.
Jean-Marc didn’t reply, he only nodded his head up and down, and smiled.
The two men left the café by way of the side door and parted company on the rue Clémenceau. Verlaque immediately crossed the narrow street and entered the tabac, where the lovely Carole was arranging cigar boxes in the humidor. She turned around when she heard that someone had entered the shop, and when she saw the judge, she raised one eyebrow and smiled coyly, a look she reserved for very attractive men or important clients. Verlaque happened to be both.
Verlaque bought his preferred short cigar, a Churchill by Romeo y Julieta, and they talked of a cigar from Nicaragua that had just been rated number one by an American cigar magazine and cost only five dollars in the U.S. Carole hadn’t been able to order any from her French distributor. Verlaque paid for his Churchill and said good-bye, quickly taking in Carole’s full lips, dark eyes, and ample breasts, which today had forgotten their brassiere. “À bientôt, Monsieur le Juge,” she replied, raising her left eyebrow as Verlaque left the shop.
Carole’s coworker then came up from the basement, carrying four cigar boxes in her arms. “Was that Judge Verlaque?” she asked Carole.
“Yes, you just missed him,” said Carole, who hadn’t changed position and was still staring at the door.
“Merde,” her young assistant said.
“What is it about him?” Carole asked. “He isn’t that handsome.”
The assistant gently set the cigar boxes down on the counter, folded her arms, and, like Carole, looked toward the door and out onto the rue Clémenceau. “Pouvoir,” she answered.
“Power?” questioned Carole, turning to face her.
“Power and intelligence,” the assistant replied. “Plus that stare.”
When Verlaque rang at the Hôtel Guimard, he was quite sure that Mme Valoie would be at home. Even if she did work, she had probably taken the week off to be with Isabelle de Bremont. And to do her own grieving.
“Oui?” a voice answered, heavy with a North African accent.
“This is Judge Verlaque. Is Mme Valoie de Saint-André at home?”
“Oui,” the maid simply replied.
“May I come in and speak with her, please?” Verlaque asked, trying not to sound impatient.
The reply took a few seconds to arrive, and instead of a voice a loud buzz answered. Verlaque pushed open the heavy iron gate and walked through the courtyard that was paved with smooth, rounded river stones. A new white BMW was parked there. Her car, thought Verlaque, remembering that the winemaker Marc had mentioned it.
Sophie Valoie opened the door and stood in its huge frame. They shook hands, and Mme Valoie stepped aside to allow Verlaque to pass. Verlaque reintroduced himself, and asked, “Do you remember me? I visited your sister on Sunday.”
“Yes, I remember. I don’t know why you’re here, but I do know that since you’re Aix’s head judge I have to let you in. Come this way, into the salon.” She appeared even thinner than when he had seen her on Monday, giving her a fragility that made Verlaque suddenly feel sorry for her.
The salon was as impressive as Isabelle de Bremont’s—six-meter-high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and large French doors that let out onto the courtyard. The furniture, however, was much more conservative than that in the Bremont mansion. It was tasteful, yes, but the furnishings were the sort one bought in expensive boutiques like Faubourg or Flamant—Verlaque could never keep the names straight. The fabric was always linen: beige or cream colored. There were no bright colors, tricycles, or soccer balls.
They sat facing one another, both silent, on matching reproduction Louis Seize chairs, both upholstered in natural linen. A small marble-topped table rested between them, graced with a vase of white tulips.
“I’m here to ask you a few things about Étienne Bremont,” began Verlaque.
“Ah bon? There’s not much for me to tell you, except that he was my brother-in-law.”
>
“Was he anything else to you, Madame?”
Sophie Valoie got up off of her chair and walked over to the wooden double doors that separated the salon from the rest of the house and casually closed them. She stood for a moment, facing the door, in order to compose herself, and then turned around and said, “What in the world do you mean?”
Verlaque waited for her to sit back down, and then he leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together. “Were you lovers?” he asked point-blank.
“That’s absurd,” she answered. Halfheartedly, Verlaque thought.
He pressed on, “You were unlucky in choosing to spend your nights together at one of my favorite wineries in the Var.”
Her face reddened, and she hissed, “What did they say? The nerve!”
“M. and Mme Nagel didn’t say anything, Madame. As I said, it was a strange coincidence. Besides, they thought that you were with François de Bremont. How long had the affair been going on?”
“What does it matter? It’s obviously over now.”
“It matters because François de Bremont was murdered, and I’m quite sure that Étienne was as well. Plus, one of my officers did a check on TGV tickets purchased last week. Your sister Isabelle went to Paris on Saturday morning and came back to Aix on Sunday morning. So were you the one with Étienne, before he went to Saint-Antonin?”
Sophie Valoie’s mouth opened and she tapped her palms against her knees a few times in rapid succession. “He left here around eleven p.m. He said he had to look for some family papers at the château.”
“Did you send him there?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Or did you go with him, and then have an argument of some kind in the attic?”
“You have no right to say such things. Of course I didn’t go with him.”
Verlaque leaned back and crossed his legs. “Why did you, and your sister, lie?”