The Curse of La Fontaine

by M. L. Longworth

  Verlaque had the feeling that she was leaving something out. She had just said that she didn’t know him well, but she somehow knew him enough not to want him to babysit. Perhaps she thought that boys couldn’t babysit as well as girls and didn’t want to say it. He asked her if she had heard anything unusual eight years ago, but she answered, logically, that it was too long ago to remember. “And besides,” Bénédicte added, “Béatrice was always making noise out there.” She realized what she said and quickly added, “But not as much as the restaurant!”

  “You teach philosophy,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Yes. I’ll retire soon, thank God. Classroom etiquette has gone way downhill in the past five years. There’s no respect for the teacher. And the poor pay is no secret. I make ends meet by tutoring.”

  Verlaque nodded. “And this house?” he asked, gesturing at the living room that was at least sixty-square-meters big, larger than many Parisian apartments. There was no way a high school teacher and her self-employed husband could afford it.

  “My family,” Bénédicte explained. “Je suis née Bénédicte de Vitrolles.”

  Verlaque almost let out a whistle, à la Bruno Paulik. Vitrolles was a large town south of Aix, and he had driven around it a number of times, to go to the airport, but had never ventured in. The old town was surrounded by a sea of giant commercial spaces—car dealers, hyper-marchés—and an IKEA that he had never set foot in. He imagined that the Vitrolles family must have owned a château there at one time, but it was probably long gone. What irony, he thought, if the bright blue and yellow Swedish megastore now sits on the château’s grounds.

  He said, “The Castelbajacs belong to a royalty group. Trying to bring the monarchy back. Do you?”

  Bénédicte Tivolle laughed. “Are you crazy? I’m a member of my teachers’ union; nothing could be further away from royalists than a bunch of underpaid, striking teachers. No, I do not belong to their group. My husband, on the other hand, would be a member before I ever would be; he’s much more impressed with the various counts and dukes who have lived in this house and on our street. But of course he can’t . . .” She saw Verlaque’s puzzled look and continued. “I’ve broken the chain by marrying a nontitled man, so my husband and children aren’t noble.”

  Verlaque thought he detected sarcasm. Or was it regret?

  She said, “I do belong to a historical society here in Aix. You’re welcome to come anytime.”

  Verlaque quickly pictured a meeting with the historical society: everyone talking at once and arguing for hours over minute details of some building’s paint color. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll think about it. Has your historical society dug up a lot about this neighborhood?” He immediately regretted his word choice of “dug up,” but Mme Tivolle didn’t seem to have noticed.

  Bénédicte nodded. “Why don’t I make us some coffee?” she offered. “I can tell you as much as you have time for.” She disappeared behind a swinging door and a few minutes later came into the living room with a tray laden with coffee and LU chocolate cookies—he imagined they were bought for the twins’ after-school snack. She told Verlaque of Louis XIV and his entourage arriving in town and the brave peasant who refused to pledge allegiance, then the hanging of that peasant in the garden just behind her house. She included in her narrative, which he found fascinating, Béatrice Germain’s stories of the fountain’s curse and the murder of Béatrice’s brothers.

  Verlaque finished his third cookie, got up, and looked out the window. He asked, “Is the fountain still dry?”

  “Yes, but hopefully not for long.”

  “When will it start up again?”

  “When you solve Grégory’s murder.”

  • • •

  Verlaque walked slowly back to the Palais de Justice, smoking a wide Churchill. It had recently been given four stars in L’Amateur de Cigare, and he agreed with the magazine’s generous grade—it smelled both like warm brioche and black pepper and tasted of dried fruit and caramel and . . . leather, he thought. But he had a problem with paying thirteen euros for a short cigar, even if it was wide. He never used to care about prices, but now, even if Marine made no comment about the amount of money he spent on wine and cigars, he had begun to pay attention.

  He wondered if Serge Tivolle had married Bénédicte for her house and title. She didn’t seem to care about either. Bénédicte Tivolle was neighbors for decades with the Castelbajacs but hadn’t been friends with them. In fact, all the neighbors seemed to know the Castelbajacs, but no one claimed a friendship with the couple. He had found them quite pleasant, despite their mourning, and despite Philomène’s scoop about their royalist group affiliation. And Grégory de Castelbajac? Everyone, from the parish priest to the antiques dealer, found Grégory to be a “good boy,” but restless. And Bénédicte Tivolle, “je suis née Bénédicte de Vitrolles,” admitted that she hadn’t trusted him but wouldn’t elaborate further.

  Bruno Paulik was sitting at his desk when Verlaque walked through the open office, and Verlaque tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Espresso.” Verlaque went into his office and turned the machine on when Paulik walked in. “Could you please close the door?” Verlaque asked.

  Paulik closed the door and saw why the judge had made such a request: It wasn’t about privacy but about cigar odor, as he took out his lighter and relit the inch or so that was left of his cigar. The sound his lighter made—the initial click; then the whoosh of the torchlike flame that Verlaque ran back and forth against the tip of the cigar in a circular motion would, for years to come, remind Bruno Paulik of the judge. His friend. He walked over and opened one of the windows, as he always did when Verlaque lit up, and then sat down, putting his notebook on the desk. Paulik had grown to love the smell of Cuban cigars—but Mme Girard had not.

  “Is she around?” Verlaque asked, taking a puff while he made Paulik a coffee. He’d had enough espresso at Bénédicte Tivolle’s.

  “Mme Girard’s on a training session,” Paulik replied. “But she’ll be back any minute. How were your interviews? Mine weren’t at all fruitful.”

  “Ditto. Although I did find out that Grégory de Castelbajac’s parents belong to a bring-back-the-monarchy group.”

  “Don’t all nobles belong to those kinds of organizations?”

  Verlaque thought of Bénédicte Tivolle, a public-school teacher. “No, they don’t.”

  Paulik shrugged his shoulders and flipped through his notebook. “None of the lawyers or real estate agents whose offices give onto the garden could offer any help, understandably, as they’re there only during the day. The hotel manager at La Fleurie vaguely remembered a guest about eight years ago complaining of someone screaming in the garden, but the hotel staff took it for a couple having sex in one of the apartments.” He looked at Verlaque and winked as a thank-you when the coffee was handed to him.

  “Guests at La Fleurie must complain all the time.” He sat down. “The Quartier Mazarin is quietier than this side of Aix, but there’s a surprising amount of noise, especially for people used to the country or suburban living.”

  “That’s what I suggested, but the manager said she remembered it so clearly because the guest was so insistent; he was Parisian and insisted he was used to city noises at night, so his comments stayed in her head. The only other interesting bit of info was from the antiques dealer, Mme Dreyfus, who confirmed that Grégory smoked pot and probably experimented with other drugs as well.”

  Verlaque watched as Paulik got up and paced across the room. “Any other news?”

  “Yes—”

  “You’re hesitating, and pacing.”

  “Do you remember Kévin Malongo?”

  “Yes, of course,” Verlaque replied. “I sent him to prison for twenty years.”

  “He hanged himself last week. In jail. He ripped his pajamas into pieces and tied them together—left a note sayin
g he was innocent.”

  “He was seen at the scene of the crime, by the sister of one of his fellow thieves.”

  “Her evidence was shaky, and she hated him,” Paulik said.

  “Of course she did. Her kid brother died during the robbery, but so did a security guard. Father of three kids.”

  Paulik finished his coffee and set his cup down. “Her brother was seventeen—”

  “I remember, Bruno.” Verlaque finished his cigar and got up, setting the stub on the windowsill to let it burn out on its own. They smelled less that way. He turned around and said, “You’re telling me I was too hasty in my judgment.”

  “I just hope we didn’t make a mistake.”

  How like Paulik, thought Verlaque, to take the blame with me. But I’m the examining magistrate here. He remembered Marine’s story of Rabelais’s judge who, unable to decide, threw dice across his desk. If there was a Judge Bridlegoose who decided the fate of Kévin Malongo, it was me, not you, cher commissaire.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Trois Frères et Une Cousine

  The Castelbajac brothers are on their way up,” Mme Girard told Verlaque twenty minutes after his conversation with Paulik. Her nostrils wriggled and she raised an eyebrow in his direction. He pretended to move papers around on his desk. “I’ll leave your office door open,” she added, quickly pushing and pulling the door back and forth a dozen times to let in fresh air.

  A few minutes later Emile, Philippe, and Ludovic de Castelbajac were sitting across from Verlaque at his glass-topped desk. He offered them coffee but all declined. They were tall men—notably taller than Grégory—but he saw a family resemblance in their fair skin, strong jawlines, and wide mouths. The two younger brothers had the same thick curly hair as Grégory, but Ludovic wore his in a brush cut. They looked tired, and Ludovic and Philippe had dark circles under their eyes. Emile’s hair needed washing. “Thank you for coming,” Verlaque said. “I could have driven back down to Sanary—”

  Philippe waved his hand in the air. “We needed a break from there.”

  Emile nodded and looked down at his lap.

  Philippe went on. “Papa keeps talking of Grégory and Mama hasn’t left her room.”

  “Understandably,” Verlaque answered. “When is the memorial service?”

  “The day after tomorrow, at Saint-Jean de Malte,” Philippe said. He seemed to be the spokesperson of the trio. “At 11:00 a.m.”

  Verlaque nodded and said, “I’m going to have to ask your help in trying to figure out what happened to your brother. I know it was eight years ago—”

  “Exactly,” Philippe cut in. “I’ve lived in Paris for more than twenty years. I had long given up on keeping tabs on Grégory’s movements. He was in contact with us only when he needed more of Papa’s money. We both went to school” —he looked at Emile— “and we worked hard at our exams, got jobs, and made our own money.”

  Verlaque looked at Ludovic, the eldest, who had been obviously omitted from his brother’s list. “No school for me,” Ludovic said.

  “But you were employed!” Philippe protested. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No offense taken, dear brother,” Ludovic said, not hiding his sarcasm.

  “Don’t fight,” Emile pleaded. “Not now.”

  Ludovic looked at Verlaque and said, “I was at sea . . .”

  “Oh?” Verlaque asked, leaning forward.

  “I was a captain on a freighter,” Ludovic explained. “I just retired. Twenty-five years at sea is a long time. I started when I was just out of high school.”

  Verlaque looked at Ludovic de Castelbajac, who, as the eldest son, would carry the title. But there he was a retired sea captain and, to Verlaque’s knowledge, not married, as there had not been a family photo displayed at his parents’ house.

  Verlaque also looked at Emile, who was still engrossed with the subtle stripes in his linen pants. He wondered if the sons were any help to their parents during this difficult time. He imagined that Emile was the doctor and Philippe the lawyer. Philippe then surprised him by saying, as if they were still speaking of his education, “Nine years it took me to finally get a medical degree and then become a specialist in cosmetic surgery.”

  “Grégory wasn’t always asking for money,” Emile said in almost a whisper. He was apparently the world’s most soft-spoken lawyer.

  “Bof,” Philippe grunted. “No, when he was selling drugs he didn’t need money.”

  “Did he sell here in Aix?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes, we think he did,” Ludovic answered. Emile looked across at his brother, visibly annoyed, but stayed silent. Ludovic went on. “I came across him once, coming out of Saint-Jean de Malte, all happy because he had a pocketful of cash. How else does an unemployed youth get a wad of cash like that?”

  “He said he was doing odd jobs,” Emile offered.

  “Ludovic just said Grégory had come out of the church!” Philippe said. “What kind of odd jobs could he have been doing at Saint-Jean de Malte?”

  Verlaque raised an eyebrow and remembered his conversation with Père Jean-Luc, who had said he liked the boy but couldn’t remember much about him or his friends’ names. He made a mental note to harass the priest for more information.

  Emile blew his nose on a linen handkerchief, then carefully folded it and put it back in his front pants pocket. “Who would want to hurt Grégo?” he asked.

  “Quite right,” Philippe added, for the first time his face revealing some kind of sadness or grieving.

  “What can we do?” Emile asked.

  “Tell me everything you knew about your brother,” Verlaque said. “Who were his friends?”

  Ludovic offered, “Our cousin, Juliette—”

  “I’ve left two messages on her answering machine,” Verlaque said.

  Philippe rolled his eyes. “Typical of Juliette.”

  “But she’s rarely at home,” Emile explained. “She works in a school for handicapped children. Keep trying. You’ll get her, perhaps on the weekend.”

  Verlaque tried another avenue. “Did Grégory contact you from South America?”

  “Postcards,” Philippe said. “Of historical sites. He was big into Indians and their rights. I once got a postcard of Machu Picchu; Grégo had written on the back ‘to think, the Indians of Peru made this. ’ A day later I got a postcard of an aerial view of Lima, in smog, with the favelas stretching as far as the eye can see, and he had written ‘and the Spaniards killed the Indians, and destroyed their cities, to create this.’”

  Verlaque nodded, noting that even Philippe was now referring to Grégory as Grégo. “Where did he stay when he was in South America?”

  “With friends, we think,” Ludovic said. “Or in youth hostels.”

  “Sometimes I think he slept on beaches or in parks,” Philippe added. “He was like that—he didn’t need any refinements. I can say that for him: He didn’t need luxuries or possessions. But still, it takes money to travel, and not work.”

  “What kind of drugs was he into?” Verlaque asked.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Emile said.

  “He did send me long rambling letters at times, on that thin blue paper meant for cheap air post. I’m sure he was high when he wrote them,” Philippe said.

  Emile nodded. “I got those, too. I still have them.”

  Ludovic said, “Me, too.”

  “Could I see all of Grégory’s correspondence?” Verlaque asked.

  The brothers exchanged looks. “Mine are all in Paris,” Philippe answered.

  “Mine, too,” added Emile. “I didn’t even think to bring them. Stupid of me—”

  “How were you to know?” Philippe asked.

  “I’ll dig around in the attic for mine,” Ludovic said.

  “You could box them up and mail them to me,” Verlaque said. “Mme Gir
ard, my secretary, can give you our details. We’ll pay for it.”

  “I need to get some fresh air,” Emile suddenly said, standing up. He had turned pale, and beads of sweat appeared on his face and neck.

  “Please,” Verlaque said, gesturing toward the door and quickly standing up. “Do you need anything? Are you all right?”

  “I feel like I’m suffocating,” Emile said. “I just need to walk around a bit.”

  “I can speak to you another time,” Verlaque said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Ludovic said. “Is that all right?”

  “Fine,” Verlaque said. “I’ll visit you on the rue Cardinale if I have any more questions.”

  “Go along,” Philippe said, looking visibly concerned. “I’ll finish up here and meet you both at the car.”

  Emile de Castelbajac opened the door and walked out, his shoulders hunched, followed by his eldest brother.

  “Will he be all right?” Verlaque asked, sitting back down.

  “Yes, I think so. His wife is leaving him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, it’s bad timing. But Emile’s more shaken up by Grégory’s death . . . murder . . . than us. He was closer to Grégo than we were. Grégo frustrated me to no end. I’m sorry if I sounded uncaring.”

  “What did Grégory do when he was in Aix?” Verlaque asked. “I take it he wasn’t a good student.”

  Philippe laughed. “No, poor guy. Emile and I were the good students, and Ludovic was above average but needed to be outside, on the sea. My father loves the sea, so that was okay. Grégo . . . it was exasperating for our parents, to have what the teachers called ‘a slow learner.’ Grégory had zero concentration and he couldn’t keep still. The Americans called it ADHD, but we’re still trying to understand it here. But Grégo was smart and good with his hands. He should have been channeled into a manual discipline, an electrician, for instance. But of course that wasn’t good enough for the Castelbajacs.”

  “Do you belong to that monarchy group that your parents belong to?” Verlaque wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t get the needlepoint in the Castelbajacs’ front entryway out of his head. Perhaps Philomène was on to something?