Verlaque nodded. “The plan to set off a bomb at the next royalist meeting? Here in Aix?”
“I refused to help them!” Bear said. “I told Grégory to tell his mentor that they were both insane.”
“Grégory’s parents could have been present,” Paulik said. “Or his brothers.”
“He said he’d make sure they were out of the room,” Bear said. “I don’t know how. They were after one person in particular. I don’t know whom, either.”
“Why didn’t you report them?” Verlaque asked.
Bear looked across the room at one of Sylvie’s photographs. “I should have, but I was terrified I’d lose my job. I had put so much on the line to become a cook. And I suppose I hoped they would lose their courage and not go through with it. It seemed so unreal at the time.”
“As it turns out,” Verlaque said, “it never happened, right?”
“Technical problems,” Bear said. “Thank God. The bomb never went off.”
“Did Grégory threaten to reveal you as a fellow anarchist?” Verlaque asked. “To ruin you?”
“Yes, that’s when I blew up,” Bear answered. “I even phoned Jean-Baptiste in Melbourne to complain about it.”
“Jean-Baptiste told me so,” Verlaque said.
“But that doesn’t mean I killed Grégory!”
“You had a good life in London,” Verlaque said. “That could have been ruined. I called your ex-bosses in London.”
“You did what?” Bear exclaimed, rising from his chair.
Paulik immediately got up from his and Bear sat back down, burying his head in his hands.
“I can’t believe you called them . . .”
Verlaque then looked at Mamadou. “I asked them about you, too.”
Mamadou let out a gasp.
Verlaque said, “You didn’t tell us you worked in London and knew Bear years ago.”
“I didn’t want to get him into trouble,” Mamadou whispered.
“You must have found it a great coincidence while chatting on break at Cavalo Nero that you both knew the same family in Aix,” Verlaque said. “And so you, Sigisbert, unable to leave the London restaurant, knew that your old coworker from Cavalo Nero was now in Aix, working at the Flunch. Quite a downslide”—he now looked at the dishwasher—“from London’s hippest restaurant to a cafeteria chain.”
“It was the only thing I could find,” Mamadou said.
“What do you know about our kind of work?” Bear shouted.
Verlaque ignored his comment and went on. “So you told Mamadou to kill Grégory for you.”
“Bullshit!” Bear said.
“And Mamadou had a perfect motive,” Verlaque said. “Revenge.”
“I would never kill anyone!” Mamadou said, his voice rising for the first time. “That’s why I left Africa! That’s all I saw . . . violence and death.”
“You see? You’ve got it so wrong!” Bear yelled, pounding on the table. “Once again! The newspapers are right about you!”
“We’re taking you both to the Palais de Justice,” Paulik said, getting up. “Suspicion of murder. There’s a van waiting downstairs.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Suzette’s Ginger Shrimp
V erlaque had the beginnings of a headache by the time he got home from work. He and Paulik had questioned Bear and Mamadou for hours. Bear had an alibi thanks to Cavalo Nero’s careful record keeping, although Grégory de Castelbajac could have been murdered any time that August, eight years ago. But it would have been difficult for Bear to leave work, fly from London to Marseille, murder Grégory, and then fly back. Sophie Goulin was checking with the airlines, just in case. Jane Clark had been the one speaking to Verlaque, until Judith grabbed the receiver out of her hand and verbally attacked him with a string of cuss words that had probably made even Jane blush. Verlaque put the receiver down, wishing he hadn’t played so many rugby tournaments in the UK. He actually knew what some of the words meant.
Mamadou couldn’t remember what he had been doing eight years ago other than working at Flunch. He did remember the name of his former boss, who had now been promoted to a Flunch in Paris. Paulik found the restaurant’s number and called the manager, who had only good things to say about his former employee. “I was freaked out by the scar, I’ll admit that,” the manager said, “but Mamadou was a great employee, and a real teddy bear.” He lowered his voice and added, “I would have promoted him had we not been inspected.”
Walking through the door of his apartment, Verlaque emptied his pockets out on the marble kitchen counter. He set his phone down and looked at the time; it was just before 7:00 p.m. He stopped himself from going to his club chair, taking off his tie and shoes, and lighting a cigar. Instead he opened the refrigerator to see if he could help Marine prepare dinner. A bag of jumbo shrimp that Marine had taken out of the freezer that morning was thawing on a plate. He remembered a dish they had eaten in Marseille, prepared by a female chef who had since retired, which she called, simply, Suzette’s Ginger Shrimp. He opened the vegetable crisper and saw that there was a large piece of knobby fresh ginger and plenty of garlic. There had been something green, too, and he thought it might have been basil. Marine had just bought a small basil plant; she had set it on the terrace as the days and nights were now warm. White wine was the next ingredient he needed; two bottles. The chef had told them she put “liberal” amounts of wine in the shrimp, probably about two cups, he guessed, to make a reduction, and he’d need another bottle for them to have with the meal. In fact, making the rice would take longer than the shrimp, so he’d probably even have time for a cigar on the terrace.
He grabbed his keys and headed to the stairs toward the cellar to fetch two bottles of his current obsession, a small-batch Chardonnay made by Jean-Pierre Michel from vines scattered over the hills west of Mâcon. They had a few bottles left, Verlaque was certain. He walked quickly down the stairs, looking forward to cooking a simple meal, listening to some music, and sharing a fabulous wine with his wife.
Once down on the ground-floor landing he put the long antique key into the cellar’s door and turned on the light at the top of the stairs. He tried to ignore the rat traps and walked quickly down the stone steps to the dirt floor. There were four small separate caves, one for each tenant, each one with a wooden door. He turned on the light for his cave, which was just to the right of the door, and put a small key into the keyhole to open it. Jean-Pierre Michel’s wine was right in front of him, on a middle shelf; its oversize “M” was easy to spot. He had opened the cardboard box and gotten out a bottle when he heard the cellar door at the top of the stairs close. “Merde!” he called out. “Don’t close the bloody door on me!” He picked out another bottle and turned around to leave when he saw Yannis Malongo pointing a small gun at him. “I’ll trade you,” Verlaque said, holding up the bottles and gesturing to the gun.
“Keep quiet and step back inside,” Malongo said, his hand shaking. He closed the door behind him. “I finally have you in a place where it can be just the two of us.”
“You’ve been following me, Yannis.” Verlaque thought how lucky he had been that night when fate had put the drunken students between him and Yannis Malongo.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say I became a little obsessed.”
“It’s not my fault that your brother—”
Yannis hissed. “Don’t you dare say anything about Kévin. He’s dead because of you!”
Verlaque closed his eyes, carefully picking out his words. He decided to be honest. “I may have been wrong about Kévin—” The ache in his head was now pressing against his forehead.
Malongo’s hand was now shaking more than ever. His eyes filled with tears. “I knew it!”
“I’ve instructed an independent judge, in Marseille, to reexamine the witness who claimed she saw Kévin—”
“How do I know you’re not lying
?”
“It will be in the papers tomorrow,” Verlaque said. “If you let me out of here, we can call the judge and you can ask her yourself.”
Malongo’s shoulders collapsed and he slid down and sat on the floor. “Sit down,” he ordered.
Verlaque looked around, wishing he had something he could sit on. He sighed and sat down across from Malongo, his legs bent at the knee. He set the wine bottles down on the earth floor beside him. “There’s a guy in the Palais de Justice right now, being held on suspicion of murder,” he said.
“So what?”
“He may have killed someone, an innocent, to revenge his brother’s death,” Verlaque said. “Do you think that a second death rights the first one?”
“What?”
“Fixes the first one. Or erases it.”
Malongo stayed silent, the gun still in his hand but now dangling between his knees. They stayed like that for about thirty minutes. Verlaque looked at the gun and saw that Malongo’s right hand was firmly holding the gun’s grip. Malongo saw him looking and waved the gun. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“You should let me out so that we can call that judge in Marseille,” Verlaque said. “You’re in a bit of merde now, but it will get worse if you keep me in here or—” He stopped himself and Malongo smirked, but he could see that Malongo was just as tired as he was and was having a hard time concentrating.
They were both startled by the cellar door opening. Marine called down the stairs, “Antoine? Are you down there? Are you in the cave?” She had come home twenty minutes earlier and seen Verlaque’s phone on the counter and the garlic and ginger sitting out. At first she thought that he had gone out to the convenience store around the corner to buy a missing ingredient for this mysterious meal he was preparing, but he always took his cell phone. But he wouldn’t have when going down to select some wine—there was no cell reception down there. She waited a few minutes longer then began to worry. Arnaud had installed a few hooks inside the kitchen cabinets and she remembered that Verlaque had hung a spare set of cellar keys there. She grabbed them and a flashlight, in case something was wrong with the lights and he had fallen. She ran out of the apartment and down the stairs, then pounded on Arnaud’s apartment door on the second floor. She waited two seconds, swore under her breath, and ran down the rest of the stairs, fumbling with the antique key as she opened the cellar door.
“Tell her you’re picking a wine and you’ll be right up,” Malongo whispered. “I want her out of here.”
Marine ran down the cellar steps and they could hear her breathing on the other side of the cave’s wooden door. “I’m picking out a wine!” Verlaque said, trying to sound cheery. “Go back upstairs!”
“Antoine, what are you doing?”
“Go away, Marine! I’m getting a nice oaky white wine for dinner!”
Marine’s heart pounded. She knew that Verlaque hated overly oaked wines, red or white.
“Go away,” Verlaque called out again. “I’ll be up in a minute with the Castello Spegnere de Luci!” He hoped his Italian was good enough that she would understand his command.
Marine reached over, turned off the lights, and stood aside. Verlaque kicked the gun out of Malongo’s hand and they struggled on the floor. Marine turned the lights back on and, her hand shaking, put the smaller key in the lock and opened the door. Arnaud was now at her side; he had heard the banging on his apartment door but hadn’t answered it in time. He threw Marine aside, mumbled “Sorry!” and grabbed Yannis Malongo by the shoulders, dragging him up. “Don’t you move,” he said, pinning Malongo against the stone wall. “Sorry about that, Marine!” he called over to Marine, not taking his eyes off Malongo.
Verlaque reached down and took the gun, which had slid beside an old suitcase. He ran out of the cave to Marine, who was leaning against the wall, panting. He quickly hugged her.
“I’m okay,” she insisted.
“Could you run upstairs and call the police?” Verlaque asked her. “I’ll stay down here.”
“Of course,” she said, brushing off the back of her skirt. “Are you all right?”
Verlaque nodded, quickly closed his eyes, and then opened them.
Marine smiled and caressed her husband’s cheek. When she was at the first step she turned her head around and said, “Spegni la luce. You used the infinitive back there.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Goldman
V erlaque and Marine slept in the next morning. They’d been so tired the night before that they had both forgotten to set an alarm. They had stayed up late talking about Yannis, trying to figure out how he managed to hide himself from Verlaque. The most probable explanation they came up with was that Yannis heard Verlaque coming down the stairs—he was humming—and had hidden behind the back door that led to the apartment’s back courtyard.
After they dressed and showered they stood side by side in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating toast off the same plate. Verlaque looked at Marine and saw that she was smiling. He wiped the toast crumbs off his mouth and said, “What’s up?”
“I wanted to tell you last night,” she began, “but we were both too tired and in that weird state of shock. But I have good news—”
Verlaque felt a lump in his throat and his stomach tightened. “Go on.”
“I heard from the publishers yesterday,” she began.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, relieved that the news had to do with her book and not an announcement that they were about to become parents.
“They’re going to publish my book. They say that although dozens of books have been written about Sartre and Beauvoir, none have concentrated on their relationship as a couple.”
He wrapped his arms around Marine. “Congratulations!” he said.
Marine said, “They want to meet me in Paris next week.”
“I’ll go with you,” Verlaque said. “We can stay at my father’s.”
“That would be great. Will everything be finished here?”
“With Grégory de Castelbajac’s murder?” Verlaque asked. “Yes . . .”
“You’re hesitating.”
“There are still a few uncertainties,” he said.
“You’re second-guessing yourself now, because of Kévin Malongo.”
“I just don’t know . . .”
Marine patted his rear and told him to get to work. “I’ll clear up the breakfast, then I’m off to the university library to check bibliographical references. After that I’m having lunch with colleagues . . . the ones who don’t hate me.”
“The ones who aren’t jealous,” he said, putting his cell phone and keys in his jacket pocket.
“You’re not wearing a tie,” Marine observed.
Verlaque looked down at his chest. “That’s right.”
• • •
He decided to walk to work the long way, down Gaston de Saporta, and cut through the Place Hôtel de Ville, always one of his favorite squares in Aix. He realized that he had purposely avoided the rue Esquicho-Coude, opting instead for a big open square, a bubbling fountain, tourists taking photos of the eighteenth-century Halle aux Grains, and waiters serving coffee at outdoor tables. He cut across the Place Richelme, where the daily market was in full swing. He took his time, strolling past tables loaded high with artichokes, salads, asparagus, and strawberries that he could smell from meters away. He bought a small barquette of fraises des bois, sneaking two or three and saving the rest for Mme Girard.
He was on the steps of the Palais de Justice when his cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and didn’t recognize the number, but it was another cell phone exchange, and since he didn’t often give his number out, he answered it. “Verlaque.”
“Judge Verlaque?” A woman’s voice sounded on the other end.
“Yes.”
He walked back down the stairs to find a quiet place to spea
k. He recognized the voice.
“It’s me, Juliette de Castelbajac.”
“Are you all right?” he quickly asked.
“Yes, yes,” she answered. “I left in a hurry.”
“I know. Why? Where are you?”
“I’m in a family cottage in Finistère.”
“Brittany?” he asked. “Why are you up there?”
“I was afraid,” she answered. “I drove all night and part of the next day.”
“Who are you afraid of?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “That’s part of the problem. Grégory warned me just before he disappeared that this might happen.”
“Was he worried about his own safety?”
“Yes . . .”
Verlaque said, “You should have told me.”
“I know, but I wanted to get away.”
“Did you send those anonymous letters to Sigisbert Valets?”
“Yes, Grégory made me promise,” she said. “He told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to warn Sigisbert. When they found Grégory’s body, I began sending letters to the restaurant.”
“You’re not afraid of Bear?” he asked.
She laughed. “No, of course not! Why?”
Verlaque didn’t answer, thinking of his conversation that morning with Marine.
“What are you getting at?” she asked, her voice sounding breathy. “They loved each other. Okay, Grégory wanted more out of the relationship, and he was too heartsick to accept the fact that Sigisbert wasn’t gay, but they would never hurt each other. Do you understand me? Bear would never have hurt Grégory.”
The Curse of La Fontaine Page 21