The Curse of La Fontaine

by M. L. Longworth

  “All right,” Marine answered, smiling. She knew that he’d come home with bundles of free real estate magazines. “See you tonight.”

  He had been given vague directions by the count, whose voice barely disguised his anguish when Verlaque introduced himself over the phone and asked if he could visit the couple that afternoon. “Across from the chapel,” the count had twice mentioned, and Verlaque continued walking along the road, stopping to admire the houses on the right-hand side of the road, those directly on the sea. He was a happy, self-confessed real estate junkie and didn’t bother to disguise his voyeurism, almost peeking through holes in fences to get a better glimpse at the homes and their gardens. The architectural styles varied from Mediterranean to sleek flat-roofed contemporary to ramshackle beach homes that probably weren’t even winterized: those were clearly closed up for the season and their Parisian owners would reopen the homes sometime in July.

  The road then narrowed to such a point that the seaside homes no longer had room for driveways and cars could no longer pass. The chapel appeared to the left, perfect in its proportions and framed by pots of palms and flowers, with benches for the weary. He stood in the doorway and turned around, looking at the sea, and saw the Castelbajacs’ house, La Belle Vue, across the way. Verlaque nodded to himself, realizing now why they had chosen such an unimaginative name for the house. What else could you call it? Not only did they have a sweeping view of the sea, but they probably also had a view of the charming vieille ville of Sanary.

  He was ten minutes early for his appointment, so he went inside the chapel, passing through honey-colored wooden doors that were covered with deep, dark grooves: names and dates carved into the doors dating back to the nineteenth century. He hated graffiti and didn’t bother to stop to read the names, no matter how old they were. Once inside, he loved the simplicity of the chapel’s interior. The barrel-vaulted ceiling and walls were painted white, showing off three or four small statues of saints, each one painted. Small marble plaques—ex-votos, offerings given to saints in fulfillment of a vow—lined the north and south walls. Each one was engraved with a name of the saved, the donors, and a date. Above the plaques were a dozen or so naïve paintings, and when Verlaque approached them to get a better look, he realized that they were not seascapes or landscapes but were also ex-votos. A woman, in long, flowing white robes, fell from a sea cliff. A man lay on the ground, injured in a railway explosion. The Virgin Mary hovered in the top corner of each painting, assuring their safety. He pulled out his phone and took a few photos to show Marine and Sylvie, both fans of the genre, and then left the chapel, taking in a large breath of sea air to prepare himself for the Castelbajacs.

  • • •

  It had been fifteen minutes since Verlaque had given the Count and Countess de Castelbajac the news. After he had gone over the details of the police report and Dr. Cohen’s findings, he offered to leave and come back another time, but the couple had insisted he stay. They ordered coffee from a young maid who looked horrified by the sadness in the house. She almost ran out of the room, tripping on the rug.

  “A year ago we came to accept, with the help of a therapist, that Grégory might be dead,” the count said. Verlaque was surprised by the nobleman’s candor. “But you’ve just told us that our son was murdered and we must know more, no matter how painful.” Verlaque looked over at the countess and she nodded in agreement. “How did he die?”

  “Grégory died of internal head injuries, due to a fall,” Verlaque said. “The person who buried him probably pushed him, but we don’t yet know where or when.”

  The countess let out a yelp, then covered her mouth. She grew ashen and silent, staring at her folded hands on her lap. Her husband paced the library, mumbling to himself. “Is it really Grégory?” he asked. “Might the pathologist be mistaken? Or the dentist? They could mix up files, couldn’t they?” The count looked over at his wife, who mumbled a “Hail Mary” with her eyes closed. Verlaque saw that she had a rosary in her hands. Had it been there the whole time? Or had she just pulled it out of a pocket? The count continued his pacing, pulling books at random off the bookshelf and then replacing them. “Who would want to hurt Grégory?” He sat down and buried his head in his hands.

  “Eight years ago,” Verlaque said, “Grégory was back in Aix for your mother’s funeral. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” the count answered, rubbing his forehead.

  “Were you and the countess at home, on the rue Cardinale?”

  “Yes, as the funeral was at Saint-Jean de Malte, on August eighth. But three days after the funeral we came here, to rest.”

  “Grégory was alone—” the countess whispered.

  “We were expecting him down in Sanary on Sunday, for a family lunch, but he never came. We assumed he had headed back south.”

  “Was it usual for him to turn up at family get-togethers?” Verlaque asked.

  “Not for a few years, no,” the count answered. “But Grégory had assured us he’d be here, so we were disappointed. His favorite cousin was here, too, so we thought he would come.”

  Verlaque asked, “What was Grégory like?”

  “We spoiled him,” the count said, looking from his wife to Verlaque. “Grégory came late, almost ten years after Emile, twelve years after Philippe, and fifteen after Ludovic.” The countess continued praying, and so the count went on. “He was born premature and tiny. We were worried sick that he wouldn’t make it out of the hospital. He did, but he was prone to illness, and a dreamer, and we catered to him. We had been strict with our first three sons, so by the time Grégory was born we were exhausted and not as disciplinarian as we should have been. Now I think . . . no, I know for certain . . . that we should have been even tougher on Grégory, as he needed it more than the other three boys.”

  Verlaque nodded, remembering the missing persons report, and the wayward son. He saw two framed photographs on the walls of two families of six, each with a smiling husband and wife and their four children. “Your sons?” he asked.

  “Philippe and his family on the left,” the count replied, “and Emile and his family on the right.”

  Verlaque nodded, wondering why there wasn’t a photograph of Ludovic. Perhaps it was in a different room? Or only those sons with large families made it onto the library walls? On a bookshelf a small framed black-and-white photograph leaned against a vase of dusty dried flowers, and Verlaque got up to look at it.

  “That’s Grégory,” the countess said, in such a clear voice that Verlaque swung around to face her, holding the photograph in his hands. “Machu Picchu.”

  “He did visit historical sites,” the count said, “when he wasn’t buying drugs.”

  “Did he buy drugs in Aix?” Verlaque asked, setting the photograph back and stealing a look at the young man: Thin. Thick tousled hair. Ripped jeans and Converse sneakers. Grinning.

  “I would suppose so,” the count replied. “But when he came back to Aix, he was on good behavior.”

  “Il était toujours sage,” the countess interjected. The maid came back in and set a tray of coffee down on a side table, then left quickly. Verlaque didn’t blame her. “Grégory was a good boy, Judge Verlaque,” the countess continued. “He was weak, that’s all.”

  The count nodded, looking at his wife. Verlaque saw the look of love they exchanged, and it made him ache for Marine. “You’re right, dear,” the count said. “Grégory was good natured, but he was too easily swayed by others. Deviant others.”

  “I’d like a list of his friends’ names,” Verlaque said.

  The count paused and rubbed his chin. “Most of them live abroad,” he answered. “Ibiza, Rome, London . . .”

  The privileged set, thought Verlaque. He understood why the count referred to them as deviant. “What about friends in Aix?” he asked. “When he was a teen?”

  “He had two good friends,” the countess offered. “T
he Three Musketeers we used to call them.” She looked toward Grégory’s photograph and managed a smile. “They were always causing a ruckus—”

  “We’ve forgotten the coffee,” the count said, pouring out three cups. “Sugar?”

  “One, please,” Verlaque said. He looked at the countess, hoping for more information. “If you could give me their names . . .”

  “Oh, it was so long ago,” she answered. “But I’ll go through our photo albums and let you know.”

  It wasn’t so long ago, thought Verlaque. Grégory was only in his mid-twenties. But he knew that the countess was grieving and that shock can make one forget what he or she had just eaten for breakfast. “I’d appreciate that,” he said. “We’ll need to speak to you both again, in the next few days, and to your sons.”

  “Absolutely,” the count answered. “Emile and Philippe live in Paris but will no doubt come down once they’ve heard the news. Ludovic lives in Aix, in the top-floor apartment of our former home on the rue Cardinale. Grégory was never very close to his brothers, but he was extremely attached to my brother’s daughter, Juliette. She may be able to help you. I’ll give you her number, but give me a day or so to break the news to her.”

  “Certainly,” Verlaque said. “And thank you.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down. Grégory de Castelbajac had probably been killed over drugs, most likely by a dealer who was owed money.

  “I’ll see you out,” the count said. “I’m suddenly very tired.”

  “I understand,” Verlaque said. He shook the countess’s hand and thanked her, then followed the count out of the library. The count excused himself to look for Juliette de Castelbajac’s phone number, and Verlaque looked around the spacious entryway. This room, as was the library, was on the north side of the house, without sea views. Small oil paintings—seascapes—lined the walls. A large Chinese vase held two umbrellas and a carved walking stick. In a gold gilt mirror he looked at himself, the newly married man. He was sure he had fewer wrinkles, but the happy state of matrimony could do nothing for his broken nose. It would always be crooked. Then he saw a reflection of a framed verse, executed in needlepoint, and he turned around to look at it. Un roi, une foi, une loi; the border outlined with fleurs-de-lis. Verlaque smirked; a needlepoint with the verse One king, one faith, one law was in keeping with the books he had seen in the Castelbajacs’ library: biographies on French kings and queens and various conservative politicians and, just above Grégory’s photograph, a multi-volume set of the Livre d’Or, a detailed Who’s Who of French nobility published yearly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Philomène Off on Her Rounds

  B runo Paulik and Sophie Goulin walked together along the Cours Mirabeau, crossing the street at Le Mazarin Café, and then walked down the rue Mistral. “I thought we’d start at the antiques place,” Paulik said, looking at a list of addresses on his notepad. “Officers Schoelcher and Caromb are starting at the other end of the block, on the rue d’Italie, and the judge is interviewing the Duke de Pradet and the priests and brothers at Saint-Jean de Malte.”

  “And the family and friends of Grégory de Castelbajac?” Sophie asked.

  “Judge Verlaque is working on obtaining a list from the parents. He visited them yesterday.”

  “How awful. I can’t imagine losing a child.”

  “Do you have kids?” Paulik asked as they turned left at the Quatre Dauphins fountain.

  “Two holy terrors,” Sophie replied, smiling. “Ages three and six. Boys.”

  “Ah, we lucked out with one girl.”

  “Here we are,” Sophie said, staring up at the wooden storefront painted an elegant matte black and the sign ANTIQUAIRE DREYFUS. She wondered why the commissioner and his wife had chosen to have just one child. Perhaps it hadn’t been a choice? At the same time Paulik thought of his little Léa, at eleven already a star singer at Aix’s prestigious music conservatory. What would he have done with two boys, two holy terrors? And besides, Léa even watched the last World Cup rugby tournament with him and had recently put up a poster of Morgan Parra in her bedroom. The French scrum-half now shared wall space with Kiri Te Kanawa and Jessye Norman.

  Paulik opened the door, which jammed when it was half open. “Give it a shove!” came a voice from within the shop. “It’s older than the hills.”

  Gaëlle Dreyfus moved out from behind her desk—Jacques Adnet, circa 1940, steel with brass corners, stitched leather drawers—and looked at the pair. She sized up Paulik, thankful that he hadn’t broken the door when she had ordered him to “give it a shove.” He was enormous. “Police?” she asked.

  Neither Paulik nor Sophie were in uniform, and he introduced themselves. “How did you know we were police?” he then asked.

  “I’ve been expecting your visit,” Gaëlle answered, tapping her right cheek with the pencil she had been holding. “Although you might have been a recently married couple looking for the perfect Baccarat vase or Art Deco silver-plated tea service, both of which I have, at very reasonable prices.”

  Paulik laughed and said he’d pass, while Sophie stayed silent, eager to begin but knowing that this kind of chitchat was very important, sometimes even more revealing than routine questions.

  “Please sit down,” Gäelle said, choosing a solid leather club chair for Paulik and a small, elegant Thonet bistro chair for his unsmiling cohort. “It’s Grégory, isn’t it? The body . . .”

  “Yes,” Paulik answered. Sophie pulled out a notepad and began writing, while Gäelle watched her, one eyebrow raised. “How did you know?” he asked.

  Gaëlle made a gesture with her fingers, opening and closing them. “Everyone in the neighborhood is talking.”

  “Does that surprise you?” he asked. “That it was Grégory de Castelbajac . . .”

  Gaëlle thought for a moment before answering. “No. He was always getting into trouble, poor thing. I liked him. He used to come in here to chat after he had argued with his parents.”

  “Was that often?”

  “Yes, I’d say so. More than I ever fought with mine, but every family’s different. Then he’d go away for years at a time, sometimes coming back with very chic friends who were tanned and multilingual and knew a thing or two about antiques. I usually sold a lot then, small pieces that they could stuff into their Vuitton carry-ons.”

  “Do you remember the last time you saw him?” Sophie asked.

  “Years and years ago,” Gaëlle answered. “I think he came back to Aix for his grandmother’s funeral, Vicomtesse de Castelbajac. A real nutter.”

  “That was eight years ago,” Paulik said. “How was he behaving?”

  “If I remember correctly, he came into the shop complaining of being back in France. He reeked of pot and his eyes were red. Obviously not from tears for the old lady.”

  “Did he seem frightened?”

  “No,” Gaëlle said slowly. “Agitated, perhaps, but at the time I put that down to the drugs. Is that when he was killed?”

  “Yes,” Paulik answered. He didn’t offer any more information.

  “Did he mention seeing any friends while here?” Sophie asked.

  “Not by name,” Gaëlle answered. “He didn’t stay in my shop long, which was unusual. Sometimes he’d sit in the chair you’re sitting in”—she pointed to Paulik’s weathered club chair—“for hours. He’d read or do the Le Monde crossword with me. But that day he was restless.”

  “Thank you,” Paulik said. “Will you please call us if you think of anything else?” He gave her a business card and he and Sophie got up, shaking hands with Gaëlle.

  The antiques dealer set the card in a small silver envelope holder, engraved with palm trees.

  “That’s a beauty,” Paulik said, pointing to it. “Much nicer than IKEA.”

  “It’s a rare one,” Gaëlle answered, flattered. “Late nineteenth century, Brazil. It came from a wealthy
sugarcane baron’s estate.”

  Sophie Goulin opened the door, giving it a strong pull at the halfway mark. They walked out into the sunny morning and stopped at the next door, number 16, a law office. “Did you intentionally comment on that envelope holder?” Sophie asked.

  “Yes, in a way. It looked very South American, or Caribbean, to me.”

  “Grégory de Castelbajac spent a lot of time in South America,” Sophie said.

  Paulik shrugged. “You never know. Just trying to make connections.”

  “And by the way,” Sophie added, “I love IKEA.”

  Paulik laughed. “So do I. So do I.”

  • • •

  Verlaque walked down the rue d’Italie, looking for a brightly painted red door that he knew led to the offices of Saint-Jean de Malte. The medieval building that housed the offices of the eleventh-century church had recently gone through two years of renovations, the details of which Florence Bonnet had recounted during a family dinner. It had been an entertaining narrative, full of the same trials and tribulations that every home owner experiences while renovating in Provence: Workers who don’t show up for days or weeks. Materials not ordered on time or in the right size. Internal squabbles between the priests themselves over interior spaces and furnishings. He began daydreaming, imagining a scenario of two priests arguing over paint swatches, and stopped suddenly at the red door, tripping up the person who was walking too closely behind him. “Je suis vraiment désolé,” Verlaque said, turning around to apologize.

  “Ça va,” the man grunted, pulling a scarf up around his face despite the warm day. Verlaque grinned; two or three of the employees at the Palais de Justice swore by the benefits of keeping one’s neck warm, even in clement April weather. Antoine and Sébastien Verlaque had been partly raised by their English grandmother, who thought the opposite: Bedroom windows were left open in winter, and if it was lightly raining, the boys were still sent outside to play. “Come back in if you see lightning,” Emmeline would joke, and the boys would do as they were told, as they knew in an hour she’d have a warm tarte tatin ready for them to eat, served with dollops of whipped Normandy cream. He looked at the man, thinking that they knew each other, but he couldn’t place him. Aix was that kind of small town: He was continually embarrassed by running into people who seemed to know him, often by name, but he couldn’t even remember if they were colleagues or assistant butchers at the Boucherie du Palais.