The Curse of La Fontaine

by M. L. Longworth

  He turned around when he heard Gaëlle Dreyfus’s voice. “Hello, Judge,” she said. “I’d like you to meet two of my esteemed colleagues on the historical society, Robert San Martin and Anthony Sauze.”

  The men quickly got up and shook hands with Verlaque, and he motioned to Marine to come over. “Admiring the fountain?” Gaëlle asked.

  “Yes,” Verlaque said. “I was promised that it would run again.”

  “You mean when the murder was solved?”

  “Well, I’m not normally superstitious,” Verlaque said.

  Marine appeared at his side and handed him a glass of champagne. “Compliments of Bear,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I’m superstitious,” Gaëlle said.

  “Me, too,” Marine agreed with her. Verlaque looked at his wife, surprised.

  “None of you should be susperstitious,” Robert San Martin said, scooping up the last bit of tapenade that Bear always put on the tables before the first dishes arrived. He spread it on a piece of bread and crumbs fell into his beard and shirt. Verlaque winced.

  “And why is that?” Gaëlle asked.

  San Martin brushed the crumbs off his shirt and let out a tiny belch. “It has nothing to do with a curse,” he said. He took the tapenade bowl and peered into it, as if wishing for more. Jacques Oller quickly and silently appeared with more tapenade and another basket of bread. San Martin smiled and rubbed his hands together.

  “Focus, Robert,” Gaëlle said, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “There’s no curse. I’ve been studying earth movements over the past few months and how they affect our canals.”

  This time it was Anthony Sauze who spoke. “Robert works for the SCP.”

  “Société du Canal de Provence,” Gaëlle said, sighing.

  “Oh, I see,” Verlaque said. “And what do the canals have to do with the fountain?”

  “Nothing,” San Martin said, biting into another tartine with tapenade. “But the tiny earthquakes that we have every week in Provence affect the thermal waters, cutting the flow off sometimes and at other times triggering it back into action. A week ago we had a small tremor and the fountain’s water source stopped. Yesterday we had another one and the water came back out. It’s all there on my spreadsheet at the office. Quite simple, really.”

  “That’s fascinating, Robert,” Gaëlle said, putting her elbows on the table and her chin in her folded hands.

  “I’m a bit disappointed,” Marine said. “I liked the idea of the curse.”

  “So did I,” Verlaque agreed.

  The front door opened and the Duke de Pradet walked in with Frère Joël. Gaëlle smiled, comfortable in the fact that she was to dine with the duke that evening, at his home. Jacques Oller directed the duke and the brother to the last available table.

  “Have a good lunch,” Verlaque said, looking at Gaëlle and her friends.

  “Thank you,” they replied in unison.

  Marine smiled and linked her arm through Verlaque’s as they walked back to their table. She whispered that she was surprised to see members of Aix’s historical committee at Bear’s restaurant, and Verlaque agreed. “They must have come to a truce,” he suggested.

  At 2:30 p.m. Bear came out from behind the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area to shake hands with his remaining diners. “Jacques will be giving you all a little grappa or nocino,” Bear said. “To thank you all for your support.” Frère Joël beamed; he had just eaten one of the best meals of his life. Père Jean-Luc was an experienced gourmet, and he couldn’t wait to tell him about the spicy mussel soup he had eaten as an appetizer and the veal loin roasted with sage that had followed it.

  “Sigisbert, I’m so glad we’ve been able to come to an understanding regarding the outdoor seating,” Gaëlle said.

  “I won’t have outdoor seating here ever,” Bear promised. “But I will have outdoor seating in my new restaurant on the Place des Fontêtes on the other side of town. It will be called Les Fontêtes.”

  Marine clapped and leaned over to Verlaque. “I love that square!”

  “So do I,” he said. One of the things he loved about it was its run-down shabbiness, and he hoped that a trendy restaurant wouldn’t kill that charm. It probably would. “How will you cook in two places?” Verlaque asked.

  “I’m staying here,” Bear said. “And I’ll go back and forth until Florian feels ready enough to take the helm at the new place.”

  Everyone clapped, and Florian, knife in hand, bowed from behind the counter. “And he’ll have Mamadou as his sous chef,” Bear announced.

  More cheers came from the dining room, and Mamadou, bent over his washing, smiled from ear to ear.

  “Congratulations, Bear,” Marine said when he came over to their table.

  “It’s a good compromise,” Bear said. “And don’t worry; I’ll try to keep the Place des Fontêtes’ charm intact.”

  Marine began, “I never thought—”

  “No,” Bear said, laughing. “Your husband did. I could see the look of dread on his face.”

  “I have faith in you, my friend,” Verlaque said.

  “I thought he was going to bring us grappa,” Robert San Martin said to Gaëlle in a whisper loud enough for everyone in the tiny restaurant to hear.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Trailblazers

  T he next day Verlaque woke up early, and after he showered and dressed, he read Le Monde. He had slept well, but he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the outcome of the investigation of Grégory de Castelbajac’s death. But despite his conversation with Paulik, he couldn’t put his finger on what was missing.

  Marine was already upstairs working; he could hear her tapping the keys on her laptop. They had talked of their plan to sell her apartment and buy a house in the country, keeping Verlaque’s smaller apartment for nights when they needed to sleep in town. They didn’t discuss Marine quitting her job, but he knew that was around the corner. Making the decision to sell one apartment had been enough for now.

  “I’m off,” Verlaque said, getting up. “I’m going to leave a bit early so I can swing by Michaud’s.” He also planned to stroll by some real estate offices and look at their listings.

  “Fine!” Marine called down. “Have a nice day!”

  He walked out of their apartment and down the stairs, stopping by Arnaud’s apartment to push an envelope under the door to pay for the shopping and odd jobs the student had done for them over the past month. Out on the street he walked toward the Place de la Mairie and when he got to the town hall his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway. “Antoine Verlaque,” he said.

  “Judge Verlaque?”

  “Yes,” Verlaque said. “You’re speaking to him.”

  “I’m sorry it took me over a week to call you,” the man said, clearing his throat. “I only just got word two days ago, from Frère Joël at Saint-Jean de Malte, that you had questions regarding Grégory de Castelbajac. Apparently Père Jean-Luc forgot to call me. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Verlaque said. “And you are?”

  “Dreadfully sorry,” he answered. “Père Etienne Fronton. I worked at Saint-Jean de Malte many years ago, when I was still a brother.”

  “Oh yes,” Verlaque said. “With the youth group?”

  “Exactly.”

  “The murderer has been arrested,” Verlaque said. “But if you have any other information regarding Grégory—”

  “I hardly think so,” the priest answered. “I won’t keep you any longer, and I can phone the church to find out what happened to poor Grégory. Such a shame, he was a good boy. A bit of a dreamer, but such a spirit whenever he did come to the youth group. We loved having him there, with his fine voice.”

  Verlaque stopped walking. He could see the Cours Mirabeau up ahead, wi
th the market stalls up and crowds already gathered around them, looking at the cheap clothes and toys. He almost swore under his breath. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he tried to avoid the Cours in the morning. “Singer?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, kept the choir director busy, Grégory did,” Père Etienne replied. “I’ll let you go now. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” Verlaque said. He ran across the Cours and down the rue Mistral and kept running until he got to the Quatre Dauphins. He turned left on Cardinale and kept running to the rue d’Italie. He saw Manuel Arruda strolling up the street with a market basket in his hand. Verlaque nodded to Arruda and carried on until he saw the bicycle locked to a lamppost by the red door. The door was open, and he walked in. Philomène Joubert was working at the desk, humming and putting stamps on envelopes.

  “The organ drive,” she said, holding up an envelope. “But you’ve already generously donated, Judge Verlaque.”

  He sat down across from her and stayed silent.

  “Cat has your tongue this morning,” Philomène said, stuffing an envelope.

  “I’m just trying to understand why you said you didn’t know Grégory de Castelbajac. You’re the choir director, and Grégory was a member and a fine singer, I’m told.”

  Philomène licked another stamp, put it on the envelope, and then set it aside. “Oh, I see.” She folded her short thick arms on the desk and played with her wedding ring.

  “Or why Père Jean-Luc promised he would have Frère, now Père, Etienne Fronton call me regarding Grégory but then never did. Frère Joël had to do it. Père Etienne just called.”

  Père Jean-Luc had been in the hall when Verlaque came in. He stepped into the office and approached the desk. “What should we do?” Philomène asked him.

  Verlaque looked over and saw Philomène’s bicycle paniers sitting at the side of the desk, covered by a red-and-white-checked tea towel. “Your bakery deliveries,” he said. “Did Grégory assist in any way?”

  Père Jean-Luc nodded, and Philomène wrung her hands.

  “Do you visit cancer patients, Mme Joubert?” Verlaque asked.

  She nodded.

  “I can’t believe I’m the one who has to ask all the questions,” Verlaque said. “Getting information out of you two is like—”

  He waited for Philomène to give him a Provençal expression, preferably from Menpenti in Marseille, but she stayed silent.

  Père Jean-Luc walked over and locked the red door that gave onto the rue d’Italie. “Grégory, bless him, sold us marijuana,” he whispered.

  “Lower than street price,” Philomène said, and Verlaque had to force his mouth not to grin.

  He nodded, trying to look stern. “And you, Mme Joubert, put it into the cakes.”

  “And cookies,” Philomène said. “Just tiny amounts.”

  “May I ask where you get the marijuana now?”

  “Best not,” Père Jean-Luc replied. “But I can tell you it’s organic, and locally grown.”

  “You can try a piece of cake,” Philomène said, gesturing to the basket.

  “No thank you,” Verlaque said. He rubbed his eyes, wishing he had headed straight for Michaud’s and never answered his telephone.

  “It gives the patients so much comfort,” Père Jean-Luc said. “I even have part of a brownie now and again—”

  Verlaque looked up, surprised.

  “Chronic back pain,” the priest explained, rubbing his lower back for effect.

  “We know it’s against the law,” Philomène explained. “But it’s becoming legal, for medicinal purposes, in so many places, and soon that will happen here, too. We were just jumping the gun a bit. Trailblazers. I think that’s the word. Trailblazers.”

  Epilogue

  The Last Photograph

  F lorence Bonnet put on her reading glasses and looked at the photograph, smiling. A crowd of about sixty people, most of them dressed in their finest, including a few women wearing very large hats, filled the tiny rue Clemenceau. Some passersby smiled and gestured at the crowd, while others stopped and stared, as if trying to decide whether to pretend to be a guest and help themselves to a glass of champagne. Even if Florence would never, ever have thought of having a party in a café, out in the street, she had had a good time, and she decided that she would frame this photograph. Florence had been half relieved when Marine and Antoine had suggested a civil ceremony in Aix and a church wedding and grand lunch in Italy. She had never been one of those mothers able to organize perfect birthday parties and had dreaded Marine’s wedding reception. She had friends who dove into the preparations of their daughters’ weddings with glee, sometimes spending more than a year, clipping out pictures from magazines and trading addresses of caterers, flower shops, and châteaux in the Aix region that rented out their buildings and gardens. The party in the street ended up being fun and casual, and Florence had been able to invite colleagues from the university, neighbors, and some of the choir friends without the hassle or worry about logistics or the food and drink.

  She loved this picture: Her daughter and husband were in the middle of the crowd, looking at each other and smiling; Anatole was saying something excitedly and Marine was smiling, holding her champagne in one hand, the other hand posing on her father’s shoulder. They stood out in the middle of the photograph and the guests around them seemed blurry, as if moving in slow motion. Florence wasn’t sure if the photographer had done that on purpose; she knew photographers could do tricks with the focusing. She wasn’t in the photograph, but that didn’t matter; she hated having her picture taken. The important thing was that it was of Marine and her father, who were very close. Perhaps if they had had a son—if baby Thomas had lived—she would have bonded with the son, sharing the same relationship with him that Marine and Anatole had. To the right of Marine was Antoine’s brother—Sébastien, she thought his name was—sneaking a look at his cell phone. She snorted. She had tried to talk to him when they were all in Italy, over the long extended lunch, but he only seemed interested in staring at Sylvie. On the other hand, Florence had had a fascinating conversation with the senior Verlaque, Gabriel, having cornered him when his too-young girlfriend had been busy speaking to Marine. They spoke of their love of the paintings of Ghirlandaio, especially the seldom-visited Last Supper in Florence’s Ognissanti refectory. Perhaps Antoine Verlaque had this same knowledge, and love, of Renaissance painting, but she had never had a conversation like that with him. She knew she was partly to blame, as she was too busy sizing him up; trying to figure out if he was good enough for her daughter. She still hadn’t decided.

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