“I agree,” Verlaque answered as he dried a wineglass. “I’ve always liked that side of town.”
“The wrong side of the tracks,” Jean-Marc said, smiling. “The fact that it has a terrace sells it for me, even if I haven’t seen it yet.”
“But,” Verlaque said, pausing as he dried, “financially the rent for a clubhouse will be a stretch for some of our members. That bothers me. We can’t let this move be the reason that some members feel they have to quit.”
“We could help fund them, as the nobles do with one another.”
Verlaque laughed. “Yeah, I can really see Fabrice agreeing to that.” Fabrice Gaussen was the club’s president and a self-made millionaire who hadn’t passed his Bac. At sixteen he had apprenticed with an uncle who was a plumber, and now Fabrice owned a chain of plumbing stores that spanned the entire South of France. He was even considering opening a shop in Paris. “I’ll have to speak to my people up there first,” Fabrice had said that evening, sitting back and resting his arms on his ample stomach. Verlaque and Jean-Marc had burst out laughing. “Hey, you two, you’re not the only ones with connections in the capital!”
“One thing you can say about Fabrice is that he earned his money,” Jean-Marc said. “My mother, although she loved her family, always complained that some nobles took their wealth for granted and hadn’t done enough hard work to earn it.” He finished his whiskey and set his glass in the dishwasher, and Verlaque did the same.
“Thank you for hosting another great evening,” Verlaque said, giving Jean-Marc the bise. “I’ll see myself out.”
Once out on the street, lit by golden lights, Verlaque wished that he had saved part of a cigar. There was something about smoking as he walked along Aix’s narrow medieval streets at night that he loved. As he walked he looked in shop windows, wondering who exactly bought all those purses, and expensive sunglasses, and shoes. He remembered a section of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast when Gertrude Stein instructed the young writer to buy art, not clothes. Hemingway had argued that he indeed did not buy clothes, and the formidable Stein had answered, “But your wife does.” Marine thought the line sexist when he read it aloud to her, and she cited a few friends whose husbands spent more on clothes than they did, but he thought she was exaggerating in order to prove a point. At any rate, Marine didn’t overspend, although lately she had been coming up with some kooky ideas, the pop-up restaurant being the winner. It was the thorn in his side that he had imagined it would be.
Despite himself, he slowed down in front of a men’s shop and looked at the linen jackets in the window. He needed a new one—they were perfect to wear on summer evenings and always reminded him of Italy, with Marine. A man had stopped behind him, looking at the window display next door. Verlaque noted the price of a pale blue jacket and, for the first time in his life, decided he would wait for the summer sales to buy it. He walked on, as did the man behind him.
As he turned left on the rue Esquicho-Coude he received a text from Marine saying that she was at his place and hoped he would be home soon. He replied that he was about thirty seconds away and put his phone back in his pocket. Before walking on he turned around to look at the man behind him, who had also stopped. It was unusual that people walked up the tiny street, especially at night, and Verlaque was now sure that he was being followed. “Do I know you?” he asked as the man walked quickly toward him.
The man was about two feet away and Verlaque braced himself, his fists clenched at his sides. His follower slowly reached into his pocket, and Verlaque thought he recognized his face. But a sudden noise behind the man caused him to turn around. A group of three university students, laughing and singing a Daft Punk song, had pushed one another into the narrow alleyway. The man turned back around and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Turning his body sideways so that he could walk around Verlaque, he said, “Pardon, monsieur.”
• • •
Jean-Marc opened the living room windows to air out the room. All three of the cigar cutters remained on the coffee table, probably due to the fact that Verlaque had grabbed a white Magic Marker from Jean-Marc’s desk and put the initials JMS on each one. Jean-Marc laughed, turned off the lights, walked down the hall, glad he had remembered to keep his bedroom door closed, and was relieved when the room didn’t smell of cigars. He saw Marine’s padded envelope on his dresser and picked it up, then sat on the edge of his bed, pulling out the photographs. It had been a wonderful weekend in Paradiso, and he fluffed up the pillows and leaned back, carefully looking at each photograph, enjoying reliving the moment. He looked closely at one of them and then began to laugh. Much to his surprise, there was Salvatore, leaning against a stone wall, smoking, watching the wedding group congregate on the square in front of the church. Jean-Marc hadn’t noticed Salvatore when these pictures were being taken; it had only been at the lunch, in an elegant restaurant on the edge of the old town, that Jean-Marc first set eyes on the handsome young waiter. The lunch had lasted all afternoon, finally breaking up just before 6:00 p.m. The guests slowly ambled back to their hotel, laughing and chatting, and in the lobby wished one another a good evening, even though it was early. The Pauliks and Sylvie and Sébastien were taking the girls down to the sea for a walk, and Marine’s parents were going to read in their room. Gabriel Verlaque and Rebecca were going to walk behind the village, through the olive groves. Verlaque invited Jean-Marc back to their suite for a pot of tea, but Jean-Marc could see the fatigue in his friend’s eyes. “That’s very kind,” he said, playing with the folded piece of paper in his pocket, “but I think I’ll read a bit and turn in early.” They gave each other the bise, and Jean-Marc wished the couple a long and happy marriage. He turned around and walked out of the hotel, back to the church square. And there was Salvatore, his young De Niro, leaning against the same wall, with the same grin plastered on his face. Jean-Marc was relieved he hadn’t needed to call the phone number written down on the piece of paper in his pocket, as his Italian was rough. But he somehow thought that that evening they wouldn’t be exchanging many words.
Chapter Nineteen
Paulik Thinks, “Welcome to the Real World”
I know it’s difficult to solve a crime that happened eight years ago, but this case feels like it has stalled,” Verlaque said.
“I agree,” Paulik said, taking a seat at Verlaque’s desk. “Not only has it stalled, it’s never even taken off.”
“No need to rub it in,” Verlaque said. He got up and opened the window, looking out. “And it’s a beautiful morning. Soon we’ll be swimming in our pools.”
Paulik laughed; neither of them had a swimming pool. He opened his notebook and took a pencil from his shirt pocket.
“I do have one new piece of info,” Verlaque said, sitting back down. “Marine went to an ANF meeting last night, just outside of Aix. It was at that crumbling old excuse of a château owned by Casimir de Tressan. About twenty of the members showed up, and toward the end of the evening she overheard an argument between two of the men. One of them, someone named Louis, warned the other, a lawyer here in Aix, Charles de Saint-Félix, not to repeat his mistakes of eight years ago, something he had done with Marguerite.”
“Marguerite de Pradet?”
“Yes, I’d assume so.”
“Do we question Saint-Félix?” Paulik asked. “It’s tempting, but that’s not quite enough information.”
“I agree. I’d rather bug the duke about it. But for now let’s go over what we know. Or at least what we can deduce. Grégory was killed just after Grandma Castelbajac’s funeral—”
“Grandma?”
“Can’t be bothered to look up her name. Her funeral was eight years ago, on a Tuesday, the eighth of August. The count and his wife told me that they stayed in Aix for a few days afterward, then left for the weekend to their house in Sanary. I’m betting the murder took place that weekend. They told me that Grégory was alone in Aix. They
had expected him in Sanary.”
“No drug leads panned out,” Paulik said, flipping through his notebook. “None of the regular small-time dealers say they knew him. He could have been bringing drugs in from South America and selling them here, but to whom?”
“Did you speak to his jet-set friends?”
“Yes; they all spoke excellent French, thank God. They were saddened by the news of his death, but none of them sounded surprised, except for the last friend to have seen Grégory before he came back to Aix, a photographer named Federico Renzi. He’s from Milan. He and Grégory had spent a few days together in Rio before Grégory came back to Aix. Renzi told me that he thought that Grégory had ‘calmed down’ and was on better terms with his parents. That’s at odds with what the antiques dealer, Mme Dreyfus, said about Grégory that week in Aix. She said that he was unhappy and restless. I had assumed he was fighting with his parents, as did she, until I got ahold of the photographer yesterday. It’s possible that he was arguing with someone else, not his parents.”
“With his murderer,” Verlaque said. “And the chef—Sigisbert Valets?”
“One of our English-speaking officers phoned that restaurant in London and Sigisbert was working during the entire week of August eighth, and the weekend. They have kept all of their journals since they opened.”
“Impressive. But I still think Bear is holding back information. He seemed frightened by the letters he was receiving, even if he wanted to appear casual about it.”
“And you say Grégory’s cousin Juliette is frightened, too?” Paulik asked. “So maybe she didn’t send them.”
“What happened last night in Avignon?” Verlaque asked.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Paulik said. “I haven’t heard anything. I’ll call them when we’re through here.”
“And Gaëlle Dreyfus? The antiques dealer?”
“She can’t remember what she was doing that week. Says she’s never kept a diary.”
“The Duke de Pradet told me the same thing,” Verlaque said. “He said that in the summer he’s in Burgundy; he was going to check his journals for that year and get back to me. I had the funny feeling that he didn’t want to talk about his late wife. She was still alive when Grégory was killed.” He paused, looking at Paulik. “When I asked him if Marguerite knew Grégory, he answered very quickly and emphatically ‘no.’”
“Like he’s protecting her—”
Verlaque said, “Marguerite de Pradet was in that royalist group. I’m going to go call on the duke. Come to think of it, he was nervous when he met me. Men of his social standing are rarely nervous when introduced to someone new, even people like us who work in the law.”
Paulik nodded and looked at his notes. “What about the Jouberts at number 10? You know Mme Joubert, right?”
Verlaque laughed. “Sort of. Philomène Joubert is a friend of Marine’s mother. They sing in the choir together, and Philomène is one of those busy church ladies, always trying to help the priests. She knows of the family, but not Grégory. Very different social circles.”
“And the Tivolle family?” Paulik asked. “They live next to the restaurant.”
“Bénédicte Tivolle is a high school teacher,” Verlaque said. “She was nobility until she married a commoner.” Verlaque thought of Jean-Marc’s mother, marrying a dentist.
“Sounds like a costume drama.”
“I agree. She did offer that her henpecked husband, an interior designer, is quite taken with the noble set.”
“Did it seem odd to you that she would offer that information?” Paulik asked.
“No, not really. It was in context with a conversation we were having about their house. Correction. Mansion. She knew the Castelbajacs, but not Grégory. And the other neighbors?”
Paulik flipped through his notebook. “We interviewed what seemed like dozens of lawyers and real estate agents—”
“Welcome to Aix.”
“But none of them could shed any light on that week or on Grégory. We spoke with a family called Roche, too. They stick out in my mind. Neither Officer Goulin nor I liked them.”
Verlaque pretended he had never met la famille Roche. He wanted to hear what Paulik had to say. “Go on.”
“They complained more about the restaurant than the discovery of a skeleton in their backyard,” Paulik said, speaking slowly as if trying to explain clearly what it was that had bothered him about Thomas and Stéphanie Roche. “They kept saying how France is going down the tubes and that Aix is changing . . . that too many people are moving in.” He mimicked quotation marks when he said “people.”
“Do you think they’re racist?”
“Yes, that was what bothered us, although at first we couldn’t pinpoint it. Of course that doesn’t make them murderers, and Grégory de Castelbajac would certainly be their right kind of person.”
“They make me think of the National Front . . . and people who do things like defacing that black Madonna. I’ve met the Roches, you see.”
Paulik’s cell phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. “It’s an Avignon number.”
“Go ahead and answer,” Verlaque said.
Paulik picked up his phone and left the office, while Verlaque looked up the Duke de Pradet’s phone number. He was about to call the duke when Paulik came back into the office. “She’s gone,” he said.
“Juliette de Castelbajac?”
“Yes. The concierge had to open her apartment. The radio was still on and clothes were scattered about. She left in a hurry.”
Paulik got back on the phone with Avignon to try to sort out how to find Juliette de Castelbajac, and Verlaque left the Palais de Justice. He had decided not to telephone the Duke de Pradet but to pay him a surprise visit. It was just before lunch; a good time to catch the duke at home. He went down some of the same streets he had the previous evening, but in the opposite direction. It was a beautiful spring morning with a clear blue sky, and Verlaque tried to forget his paranoia, his fear that the dead Kévin Malongo’s brother was following him. But all the same his body was stiff, on alert, paying close attention to the people around him. His fellow Aixois were out and about: mothers walking with small children, taking them home for lunch; retired friends, or groups of students, sitting in cafés; and people window-shopping, as he had been doing the night before. Nobody seemed rushed; it was as if no one here worked. But few people worked downtown—he knew that he, Marine, and Jean-Marc were fortunate, as those who worked in business or light industry had to drive each morning south of Aix, to its zone d’activité, or to Marseille.
• • •
The Castelbajac brothers had been sent out to Sanary’s harbor to buy freshly caught fish for the evening’s dinner. They were all surprised by Ludovic’s unannounced appearance that morning. Their presence was heavy in the house, and both parents were relieved when the three brothers left together. Emile felt his parents’ fatigue and suggested to Philippe and Ludovic that they lunch together on the port, after buying the fish. They agreed, and Emile prepared a foil-lined bag with ice cubes to keep the fish cold. He embraced his parents before they set off. He felt useless, unable to help them in their grieving. They both seemed more overly dependent on the maid than on their sons.
The brothers walked three astride down the hillside path that was lined with potted plants on one side and stations of the cross, leading to the chapel, on the other. From the path they had a view of downtown Sanary and the harbor, with its red- and-white-striped lighthouse. As they walked Philippe slowed down before each station, quietly praying and making the sign of the cross. Emile looked at the flowers, trying to name them. He knew that the tiny multipetaled orange-and-yellow flower was lantana. The tall, spiky mauve flowers, with their long, slim petals, were agapanthus. He stopped at a large terra-cotta pot that held a bell-shaped flower that fell gracefully upside down. He had no idea what it wa
s. “I remember this flower,” he said, “from a trip to Sicily that Julie and I did before the kids were born. There’s something beautiful about a plant like this, with its naked stem topped by a crown of flowers. The green of the stem glows.”
“The fish will be all sold if we don’t get down to the port in the next few minutes,” Ludovic said.
“You’re right,” Philippe said, picking up his pace, and soon they were at the bottom of the hill, which ended in a boules court and, across the street, the sea. Les pointus bobbed up and down in the water, like toy boats. “Look at their colors . . . ,” Emile said, stopping to take a picture with his cell phone of one of the small wooden double-bowed sailboats. “Yellow and blue and orange. Look at that red and blue one, the same colors as ours. I always regretted Papa selling it. But today they just seem too bright and happy. Their joyfulness is completely incongruous to how I feel, to how we all feel . . . Grégory loved les pointus.”
“You’re a poet today,” Ludovic said, sighing. “First the flowers, now the boats—”
“Let him be,” Philippe countered, defending his younger brother. “I thought of Grégory, too, when I saw the boats. He always fancied buying one; he told me that the last time I saw him. You know Papa has a friend here in Sanary who rescues old pointus and stores them in a big hangar. He sells them for one euro, on the condition that the new owner makes the boat seaworthy within a year.”
“It would take more than a year to fix one of those,” Ludovic said. “Some of them are more than ninety years old.”
“Mr. Negative at your service,” Philippe said, bowing slightly before Ludovic.
“They can’t be all that bad if they’ve been sailing on the Med for more than four thousand years,” Emile said, ignoring his brothers’ bickering. He stared at one of the boats, painted bright green with orange trim. It was called Julie, oddly enough the name of his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
The Curse of La Fontaine Page 17