“Yes,” Philippe answered frankly. “That’s one of the many points where Grégory and I disagreed. The Indians would have been better off with some guidance from a strong monarch.”
But the conquistadores were sent to the New World by monarchs, thought Verlaque. He wanted Philippe to continue speaking and so merely nodded, as if he was in agreement.
“All those migrants coming in droves across the Mediterranean, for example,” Philippe went on. “Fifty years ago they didn’t want the colonists leading them anymore—us, the English, the Dutch; we who gave them roads, hospitals, and schools. And so we gave them their independence, and they throw themselves into chaos—civil wars, dictators, genocides—and now they are all coming here. To us, their colonists. What irony. But they’ll be in for a surprise, as our politicos are just as crooked and stupid as theirs.” He sighed and looked up at the ceiling.
“Do you belong to the same group as your parents?”
“No, I go to meetings in Paris. They go to meetings in Aix.”
“Can you—?”
“Give you names?” Philippe asked. “Sure. It’s not like it’s a secret society or anything. They’re the local chapter of the L’ANF.”
“Association de la noblesse française?”
“The Association for the Mutual Assistance of the French Nobility, to be exact,” Philippe answered. “The Aix president is Casimir de Tressan. My father is vice-president.”
“The Duke de Pradet is a member, isn’t he?” Verlaque asked, trying to sound casual, like a friendly neighbor chatting between hands at a bridge game. He added, for extra insurance, “My wife owns an apartment on the same garden and quite likes the duke. Fascinating man—”
Philippe de Castelbajac made a snorting sound. “Not nearly as clever as he makes himself out to be. Quit the monarchists in a huff. But Marguerite stayed on, bless her. She was good friends with Maman.”
Verlaque was already scheming about who he could send to the association in the guise of a new member when Philippe got up and stretched. “Is that everything?” he asked. “I should be getting back to the car to check on Emile.”
“Yes,” Verlaque said, shaking the doctor’s hand. “Thank you for driving up to Aix. Just one last question. Grégory’s friends—”
“He had two best friends,” Philippe said. “In junior high, I think.”
“The Three Musketeers,” Verlaque offered.
“Exactly. One guy had a common name. Jean something or other. Jean-Yves? Jean-Louis?”
“And the other one?”
“Easy name to remember,” Philippe said. “Sigisbert. Can’t remember his last name, though.”
Verlaque tried to hide his surprise at hearing the name. He said, “It’s no matter. Thank you.” He isn’t a noble, he thought. So you had no need to remember his last name.
Philippe de Castelbajac left, looking much more tired—deflated, even—than when he had first shaken hands with the judge. He looked to Verlaque like he had officially entered the stage of mourning. Verlaque thought about his own brother, Sébastien. They had nothing in common and rarely saw each other; much like Philippe and Grégory de Castelbajac. But the last time they met, in Italy, at his wedding, Verlaque had felt closer to Sébastien than he had in years. Perhaps it was the fact that Sébastien had made the effort to come, or was it because he was so elated that day that he would have welcomed an enemy to his wedding table? Or it may have been Sébastien’s funny crack about the age difference between their father and Rebecca Schultz or the smile it brought to his face watching Sébastien and Sylvie laugh together.
He watched Philippe de Castelbajac disappear around a corner, his shoulders getting smaller and smaller. A young policeman walked by, pushing a cart full of documents. The image of Mamadou walking down the street, pushing a wheelbarrow, suddenly came into his head. He moaned out loud. He had been so fixated on finding a decent lunch that he had ignored La Fontaine’s dishwasher. He now knew where he’d be able to find Bear that evening. But first he had to drive to Avignon.
• • •
There was a long-standing competition between Aix and Avignon. Both were ancient cities, built of the same golden stone. Avignon had water—the Rhône—and Aix didn’t, unless you considered its fountains, which Antoine Verlaque didn’t think counted as a body of water. Aix had the opera festival and Cézanne, Avignon the pope’s palace and a well-respected summer theater festival. They both had elegant shops, although one dined better in Avignon. That, along with the river, makes two points for Avignon, thought Verlaque as he slowed his car down at a toll gate. The toll detected the transponder that his ancient Porsche had permanently displayed in its windshield; the bar lifted and he drove on. He grimaced as he thought of wine: Avignon had Châteauneuf-du-Pape within reach; Aix had the younger Côteaux d’Aix. Hardly the same ballpark. Another point for Avignon.
One hour later Verlaque had exited the highway at Avignon sud and was directed by his phone’s GPS through the city’s suburbs toward Juliette de Castelbajac’s school, the name and address of which Mme Girard had easily located. He looked around at the barren streets and shoddy buildings and gave Aix another point. Aix’s outskirts, even the Jas de Bouffan, were not as desolate or poor. As he approached the old town it did not get better. His grandparents’ neighborhood in Paris’s 17th arrondissement was much like this, with the regular smattering of services that catered to the needs of immigrants: shops that offered phone booths for making long-distance calls, usually back to Africa; ethnic restaurants lit up with neon lights; wig shops; and the usual corner pharmacy and bar. In Paris there was a municipal swimming pool, a theater, and a community arts center where his grandmother Emmeline had volunteered as a drawing instructor. In the 17th the ambience was a happy one and the streets were busy. Not so here.
It was with some relief when, five minutes later, he pulled up in front of Juliette de Castelbajac’s school. It was new, built with much glass and steel, probably by a young architect getting his or her first big commission. The building’s tidiness gave Verlaque hope; he saw it as a sign that he would find Mlle Castelbajac and that she would be able to shed some light on her cousin Grégory. Since she had not returned his phone calls, he had decided to come to Avignon without warning. It was a Tuesday, so in all likelihood she would be at work. At least that was what he was betting on.
He could hear laughter and shouting as he walked toward the front door. To the right of the door was a window and he could see the concierge sitting inside, reading a magazine. She looked up and saw him, then pointed to the speaker to the right of the window. “Oh, all right,” he said, doing his best to look helpless.
He pressed a white button beside the speaker and she spoke into a microphone on her desk. “Parent? School doesn’t get out for another two hours.”
“Um, no, I’m not a parent,” he replied, smiling. He showed her his badge. “Judge Antoine Verlaque. I’m from the Palais de Justice in Aix and I need to speak to one of your faculty members.”
The concierge shot out of her chair and stuck her nose to the glass to read his badge. He imagined that he had made her day. “Whom would you like to speak with?” she asked.
“Juliette de Castelbajac.”
Without a word the front door opened with a click, and he walked into the large, bright foyer filled with colorful drawings.
“Follow me,” the concierge said, walking out of her office. “Mlle Castelbajac is outside, in the back, with the children.”
He followed the short, wide woman through a long hallway lined with backpacks and jackets that hung from pegs about a meter off the floor. It looked like any school except he knew that this one was for children with special needs. They walked out through a set of double doors into the courtyard, where children ran in every direction. A group of three teachers were standing in a huddle, talking. The concierge held up a finger, motioning for Verlaque to stay
where he was, and walked over to the group and spoke to them. The tallest—a thin woman with dyed pink hair and harem pants—looked over and then slowly walked toward him.
“Mlle Castelbajac?” he asked as they stood face-to-face.
“Yes, I’m Juliette de Castelbajac.” She had big brown eyes in a round, childlike face that was slightly at odds with her tall, angular body. He had to stop himself from staring at the small hoop earring pierced through her left eyebrow.
“You are hard to get a hold of.”
“My cell phone is broken,” she answered flatly.
Verlaque didn’t ask how she knew that he had tried her cell phone. Perhaps he had called the school or her landline? Instead he said, “I need to ask you some questions about Grégory, your cousin.”
“Go ahead.”
The children’s screams were deafening, but it somehow helped the situation, as the noise forced them to move closer together. “Your aunt and uncle tell me that you were very close to Grégory.”
“Yes,” she said. She swallowed, and Verlaque saw that her nerve was slowly weakening. “We spent holidays together when we were kids, in Sanary.”
“And as adults?”
She closed her eyes slightly, then said, “Still close.” She tilted her head as she looked at him, then asked, “What do you know of Grégory? What kind of a person do you think he was?”
Verlaque didn’t mind her cross-examination. He just wanted her to talk. He said, “I know that he loved traveling, South America especially, and that he loved history and the rights of man.” A smile formed at the sides of her mouth, and her eyes filled up with tears. Verlaque continued. “And that he was the black sheep of the family.”
Juliette held out her harem pants on either side and then gestured to her piercing. “We were two. Two black sheep. I abandoned law to take a degree in education.”
“What else did you have in common?” he asked.
“Not drugs, if that’s what you mean,” she answered. “I’m into clean living. I could never keep up with these kids if I had a drug or alcohol habit.” As if on cue, two boys, ages seven or eight, ran around them in circles, laughing. Verlaque saw that they both had Down syndrome. The taller of the two tugged at the back of Verlaque’s jacket and then they ran away.
“Did Grégory sell drugs?”
Juliette de Castelbajac flinched but replied in the negative. “He took drugs, though. I don’t think anything strong. Hell, they will soon be legal here, anyway. Grégory was harmless.” She closed her eyes and when she opened them Verlaque saw her anger. “Who would want to hurt him?”
“I don’t know,” he answered as he watched the children run and play. He turned to her and asked, “Was he frightened when you last saw him?”
She shook her head. “I saw him at our grandmother’s funeral. He seemed angry about something, or agitated. I assumed he had had another argument with his parents or with Philippe. Philippe was hard on him.”
“But Grégory didn’t tell you what was bothering him? Didn’t that strike you as odd, given how close you were?”
“It was a funeral, with all the social muck that goes with our family gatherings. We didn’t have time to sit down and talk.”
“Your uncle, the count, belongs to a royalist group. So does Philippe. How did Grégory feel about that, given his socialist leanings?”
Juliette shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.” It was an entirely unsatisfactory answer, but before Verlaque could challenge her on it, the boys came back, running more circles around the pair of them. Juliette called out their names and told them to go back and play with the other children.
“Boyfriend!” the taller child called out, pointing at Verlaque. The boys exploded into laughter.
“Husband!” his comrade cried, jumping up and down. They fell into each other’s arms, laughing.
“I’m married to someone else,” Verlaque said, smiling. “Marine. Her name’s Marine.”
“I don’t like you anymore,” the smaller one said to Verlaque. “And I don’t like Marine.”
They hugged Juliette’s legs, one on either side. “Juliette,” the taller one said, staring up at her, “don’t be frightened. We heard you telling Agnès that you were afraid. We’ll take care of you.”
• • •
Emile de Castelbajac sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Ludovic and Philippe stood beside the car that Philippe had rented, arguing. They had been lucky to have found a spot in the small public parking lot across from the Palais de Justice. A large Range Rover slowed and stopped behind their car, the driver rolling down his window to ask, “Are you about to leave?”
“Get lost,” Ludovic called over.
“No, sorry,” Philippe said, waving the driver on. He looked at his brother and said, “Still the chip on your shoulder.”
Ludovic shrugged.
“You really should be coming with us to Sanary,” Philippe went on. “I can drive you back up here when Emile and I catch the TGV back to Paris.”
“I was already in Sanary—”
“For a few hours,” Philippe protested.
“You’ve always enjoyed telling me what to do. That’s one of the reasons I went to sea. To get away from all of you.”
“Forget about our squabbles for a moment and think of Maman and Papa. And Grégory.”
“Grégory was a loafer,” Ludovic said. “You were the one always saying that.”
“Perhaps I was too hard on him.”
Ludovic snickered.
“Well, at least now we know what happened to him—”
“He won’t be causing any more trouble,” Ludovic said, turning to go.
“I can’t believe you just—”
Emile opened the car door. “We should be going,” he said. “Maman and Papa are all alone.”
“Are you just going to walk away?” Philippe asked.
“That’s what I’m doing,” Ludovic said, walking away through the parking lot toward the Cours Mirabeau.
Philippe got into the driver’s seat and started up the car. “Can brothers ever really know one another?” he asked Emile.
Chapter Sixteen
La Fontaine Up and Running
Okay, we have seating for sixteen and it’s a full house tonight,” Bear said, looking at each member of his team. His voice was shaky, and he seemed unusually pale. Marine assumed that it was due to the stress of moving locations. He continued. “It doesn’t sound like a lot of people, but we have limited resources and equipment here. No offense, madame.”
“Please call me Marine,” Marine said. “And no offense taken.”
“I assume you all have the table numbers memorized,” Bear went on. “There are no odd-numbered parties tonight, thank God.”
Marine looked surprised, and Florian explained, “Tables of five, for example. The biggest table we have right now fits four comfortably. Five would be tight, although we have an extra chair if need be.”
“Florian is my sous chef,” Bear said.
“More like your wife,” Florian replied, laughing.
“What he means by that,” Bear said, “is that he watches my back and knows my every move. If you aren’t sure where to find something, ask Florian. I don’t know why we’re telling you all this; it’s not as if you are going to work with us tonight.”
“It’s fascinating,” Marine said. “I’d just like to watch you all in action for a bit, then I’ll leave and let you serve your customers.”
Bear’s cell phone rang and he excused himself, taking the call in Marine’s former living and dining room, which was now set up with six tables for two diners and one for a party of four. Marine had left Sylvie’s large color photographs of people swimming in the sea but taken down personal or family photos. She and Mamadou had set the tables with small candles and she was impressed by how good her
apartment looked in its new guise as a restaurant. The sofa and armchairs were now stacked on top of one another in the guest bedroom.
“Something smells wonderful,” Marine said as she lifted the lid off a giant stainless-steel pot.
“Tuscan bread soup,” Florian said. “Bear and I made it this morning, along with ravioli, which will be the other starter. The mains are grilled calamari, linguine with roasted vegetables, or osso buco in bianco.”
“White osso buco?” Marine asked. “No tomatoes?”
Florian lifted the lid off another pot. “White wine and anchovies instead of tomatoes.”
Bear walked back into the kitchen, sliding his cell phone into his back pocket. “Bad news. Jacques is sick. His doctor says it’s pneumonia.”
Mamadou set down the stack of plates that he was about to take out into the dining room and Florian set his head in his hands.
“I’m guessing Jacques is your waiter,” Marine said.
Bear nodded, looking at the vintage clock that hung on Marine’s kitchen wall. “One hour until the first clients arrive.”
“This is my apartment, and I know a thing or two about wine and food,” Marine said. What she didn’t tell them was that her knowledge was newly acquired. She had rarely eaten in restaurants as a child, and as a law student in Paris had been either in the library or meeting friends for drinks in cheap bars. But the more that she ate in restaurants with Verlaque, the more interested she became in how the place was run, who did what, the orchestration of it all. She had a friend in law school who had dropped out in order to study theater, not because she had wanted to be an actress but because she had wanted to work behind the scenes. “Whenever I go to a play I lose track of the text,” she had complained to Marine while they drank beer with grenadine (something she never admitted to Verlaque) in one of the many student bars near the rue Moufftard. “I keep looking at the lights and trying to work out where they bought the furniture for the set.” Last time Marine had heard, her friend was married with three children and still worked in the theater—La Comédie Française, no less.
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