Verlaque nodded and smiled. He was charmed by the teacher’s naivety; hotels such as the one they were heading to always had a humidor. He had brought his own cigars, but knew he would be able to fall back on the hotel’s stock if he fell short. “They’re filling up about half of my suitcase,” Verlaque answered. “She doesn’t know.” At that point they both looked across the boat to Verlaque’s companion, who was taking photographs of the sea.
“She’s beautiful,” Monnier said, surprising himself that he would be so forthright.
“Yes, and she carries it so well. Some women are ruined by their beauty, but not Marine.”
Monnier thought that this man Antoine was used to getting compliments on the beauty of his girlfriend, or wife; at least, he hadn’t been at all surprised by a stranger’s comment. “Marine,” Monnier repeated. “Appropriate name for someone who takes pictures of waves.”
Verlaque nodded. “It is, but I think she’s taking photos of waves because she’s actually frightened of them.”
Monnier did a half smile. “I knew someone like your Marine once. Wonderful girl . . .”
The boat hit a wave, and both men grabbed on to the edge. “I’ve never been beyond Frioul before,” Verlaque said. “It’s magnificent to be out on the sea like this, with Marseille off in the distance.”
“We’ll be going out eight kilometers,” Monnier answered. “Sordou was the first island that Mediterranean mariners came to; hence the importance of its lighthouse. The other islands in the Riou archipelago are uninhabited . . .”
“Yes, I know . . .”
“Protected by the coast guard and used only by scientists and divers and seagulls . . .”
Verlaque waited for Monnier to take a pause, as he was obviously in teacher mode, but didn’t get a chance to speak. “Neolithic peoples came to Sordou looking for shellfish,” Monnier went on.
“Mmm,” Verlaque said. “We’ll no doubt get some good fish on the island. I’ve heard great things about this young chef . . .”
“Of course there are plenty of rabbits, and some rare birds like the protected Puffin cendré . . .”
“Of course, with its bright-yellow beak and ashy-colored feathers . . .”
“But the puffins hide out in the island’s rocky crevices, so it’s unlikely that we’ll see one.”
The boat slowed down and Marseille was but a golden haze in the distance.
“Well, here we are!” Monnier said, shielding the sun from his eyes with his hat.
Now that the boat had pulled up to the island’s dock, the passengers could feel the July heat. The American woman reminded her husband, Bill, as they excitedly ran inside the boat to get their suitcases, to be careful of his back.
“Ah . . . Sordou,” Monnier said, looking at the island.
“Have you been here before?” Verlaque asked. “As I understand it, Sordou has been abandoned for decades.”
“Oh, I’ve been here before, mon ami, I’ve been here before.”
Chapter Two
The Welcome
“Watch your step,” the captain said to the passengers as they got off his boat—Le Sunrise—and hopped on to Sordou’s main pier. The captain was anxious to get back to Marseille, as the sea was getting rough, and by the time he got back his friends would be well into their second pastis at the Bar de la Marine.
A handsome, rugged-looking man in his thirties was there to greet the guests and help them with their bags. Hugo Sammut was glad to have the job; he worked during the winters in the Alps as a ski instructor but had needed to earn some cash this summer season. He was hired on as gardener and boatman—he had his blue boat badge in sailing and could take the guests out in the hotel’s small motorboat if they desired. It was no surprise to him that he would also get asked to do odd jobs such as greeting the guests at the pier; at their first staff meeting in early May he had been shocked that the staff consisted of only six people, plus the hotel’s owner and his wife.
“Tenez, madame,” Sammut said as he offered his forearm to a middle-aged woman getting off the boat.
“Oh, don’t mind if I do!” she answered in English, giggling and taking his tanned muscled arm.
“Shirley!” her husband called out from behind. “You’ll want to watch out with these Frenchies!”
She patted Sammut’s arm as thanks once she had both feet on solid ground and reached for her husband’s suitcase as he almost lost his balance getting off the boat. “Bad back,” she loudly said to Sammut, pointing to her husband and then motioning to her lower back with her hand. “And Parkinson’s too,” she added. Eric Monnier cringed; the woman’s openness about her husband’s various ailments embarrassed him.
“In that case, madame, please allow me to take your suitcases up to the hotel for you,” Sammut said in perfect but accented English. He was extremely popular in the mountains with the Anglo-Saxon—women, in particular—skiers.
“Oh my, thank you . . .”
“Hugo,” he answered.
“Hugo, dear. I’m Shirley Hobbs, and this is my husband, Bill.”
“Glad to meet you, son,” Bill Hobbs said, shaking Sammut’s hand. Monnier looked on in amazement at the American couple’s friendliness and noted that the man’s hand trembled as he shook hands. Monnier had never been to “the States” as some of his ex-colleagues had annoyingly referred to it.
“Hugo, are you sure you can handle both of those bags?” Bill Hobbs asked. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t be a problem,” Sammut answered, and to his relief saw Serge Canzano, the hotel’s bartender, walking quickly down toward the dock.
“I’ll help you with your bags, sir,” Canzano said to Monnier as Sammut gave his colleague a where have you been? look. Canzano didn’t have the chance to tell Sammut that he had been busy making a second mojito for one of the guests when the boat had pulled in. He had finished making the drink and called Marie-Thérèse—who had been busy in the laundry room—to tend bar until he returned.
“And then I’ll be back for your bags,” Sammut said to Antoine Verlaque and Marine Bonnet.
“Oh, no no,” they protested in unison. “That won’t be necessary,” Verlaque said. “We can manage.”
“I’ll take your bags,” a throaty female voice sounded. The group turned around to see a petite, short-haired woman in her late twenties as she bounded down the pier and took Marine’s suitcase from her. “Welcome to Locanda Sordou,” she said. “I’m Niki Darcette, the hotel manager.”
Marine looked at Niki Darcette’s thin tanned arms and legs and estimated that she was a size 0. Darcette wore a sheer white cotton blouse with short sleeves and a red miniskirt with high-heeled sandals.
“Mme and M. Le Bon, the hotel owners, will be meeting you in the hotel lobby,” Darcette continued. “A few of the guests have already arrived, two more are coming on a later boat this evening, and then we’ll be uninterrupted for a blissful week.”
It sounded to Marine like Darcette had rehearsed the greeting; the addition of “blissful” was a little too much. But she liked her low, raspy voice, even if it was probably due to too much smoking.
“M. Verlaque,” Darcette said, walking beside Verlaque. “I hope you had a pleasant boat ride.”
“Very pleasant, thank you,” Antoine said, turning around and smiling at Marine.
Marine was relieved that Mlle Darcette hadn’t said “judge”; she had insisted that Antoine’s profession—he was Aix-en-Provence’s examining magistrate—remain hidden that week. This was to be a no-work holiday; neither of them would be giving out free legal advice. She had finished her term from teaching law in late May but since then had been busy researching and writing.
“Wow. Wow wow wow,” Shirley Hobbs said, adding a whistle, when she looked around her.
“Shirley, that’s four ‘wows,’” Bill Hobb
s told his wife. Steep white cliffs surrounded the island’s harbor; the cliffs were dotted with green shrubs, and in some places small hearty umbrella pines grew out of rock. The cliffs dropped sharply off into the blue-green sea, like the calanques the Hobbses had seen in Cassis on their previous vacation to this part of Provence. It had been that pleasure-boat ride five years ago—three calanques for 15 euros Bill remembered—that had persuaded them to book this luxurious week on Sordou. “It’s just like a place in those decoration magazines you’re always reading, isn’t it, Shirley?” Bill asked, taking his wife’s arm.
“Design magazines, not decoration, Bill,” his wife replied.
The guests gazed up at the hotel; it was a light-pink adobe building sitting on a slight rise, overlooking the sea. It curved along a hill and rose up in blocks, working to fit into the hilly landscape instead of imposing itself on it. A series of curved balconies and terraces lined the hotel’s front, some grand with sweeping views, and others small and intimate. This side of the island faced south; the view was, except for the white cliffs at either side, of the sea. The guests seemed to all turn around at once to look at the view once they were on the top step leading to the hotel’s front door.
“Sea, and only sea, all the way to Africa,” Hugo Sammut told the guests. He had been on the island for two months and was still mesmerized by the view.
“Messieurs-dames,” a voice called out. Maxime Le Bon was standing in the arched doorway of the hotel, holding open the double glass doors. “Bienvenus,” he continued. “Welcome,” he said to the Hobbses, guessing, because of Bill Hobbs’s visor, who they were. Le Bon wore what was required in the July heat—linen pants and a short-sleeved white shirt. He was trim, and tanned (like the rest of the staff), and he seemed, thought Marine Bonnet, to be genuinely excited by the arrival of his guests. “My wife, Catherine—we all call her Cat-Cat—is inside. Please . . .”
Le Bon and Sammut held the giant glass doors open, and the guests passed into the hotel’s lobby.
“No more wows, Shirley,” Bill Hobbs said as he looked around the spacious cathedral-ceilinged lobby. The walls were painted a warm cream, and the accents—window frames and light fixtures—were black. To the right of the front door was an arched alcove—Marine thought it might have been a chapel at one time—where there was a curved wooden reception desk. An elegant middle-aged woman quickly came out from behind the desk and welcomed the guests.
“Bonjour,” she said, smiling. “I’m Catherine Le Bon. Please call me Cat-Cat. Your suitcases will be taken to your rooms while Mlle Darcette and I check you in. While we’re doing that, you’re all invited to pass through the lobby into the bar . . . the Jacky Bar we call it, in honor of one of Sordou’s bartenders from the 1950s . . . and have a complimentary glass of champagne.”
Eric Monnier saluted Mme Le Bon and made straight for the bar, saying, “I’ll check in last. You folks go first,” as he walked out of the lobby.
“Well, we are very tired,” Shirley Hobbs said after Niki Darcette had translated Cat-Cat’s welcome. “I’d love to see our room and put my feet up.”
“Of course, Mme Hobbs,” Maxime Le Bon replied. He gestured toward the reception desk. “Please . . .”
Verlaque looked at Marine and said, “I’ll check us in if you want to go to the bar.”
“I don’t mind waiting with you,” Marine answered.
“Don’t you want to find Sylvie?” Verlaque asked. He secretly wanted to check in without Marine knowing that he was going to try to upgrade their room.
“You’re right,” Marine said. “And the bar is a good place to start.”
“Putain de merde!” a teenage male said as he passed between Marine and Verlaque, causing them both to step back.
“Excuse us!” Marine said, visibly annoyed.
The boy turned around and quickly said, “Sorry,” before throwing open the front doors and running out of the hotel.
“Brice!” a woman called, walking quickly into the lobby.
“He went that way,” Verlaque said, pointing outside.
“Merci, monsieur,” the woman said. “Teenagers!” the woman said to Verlaque, flashing him a smile, as she walked out of the hotel.
“M. Verlaque,” Maxime Le Bon said. “We’re ready to check you in.”
“See you in a bit,” Marine said. “You know where to find me.”
• • •
If the hotel’s lobby was elegant Tuscan in decoration, the bar was riotous Capri, circa 1962. Marine stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and looked around the bar, smiling. Hugo Sammut approached her with a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” Marine said. “This is a beautiful bar.”
Sammut looked around as if he hadn’t noticed the bar before, and shrugged before walking off.
“Hey!” Sylvie Grassi called from the end of the curved, white bar accented with large black polka dots. “Finally!”
Marine quickly walked over to her best friend, gave her the bise, and hugged her. “I’m so glad we’re here!”
Sylvie held up her mojito and clinked glasses with Marine’s champagne flute. “To summer vacation,” she said.
“Chin-chin,” Marine replied, sipping her bone-dry champagne.
“Sit down ’cause you’re gonna fall over when I tell you who’s here,” Sylvie said, slightly slurring her words.
Marine laughed. “Is that your first mojito?”
Sylvie shook her head back and forth. “My second, and then I’m going to take an afternoon nap. I haven’t had a nap since Charlotte was born.”
“How is she?” Marine asked of her ten-year-old goddaughter.
“We spoke yesterday, just before I got here. . . . There’s no cell phone reception here, by the way,” Sylvie said. “She’d been on a two-hour walk through Alpine meadows with my parents, and later they were going to buy cream at Charlotte’s favorite farm.”
Marine sighed. “That’s idyllic.”
“Mmmm, and so are these mojitos, and this hotel! Isn’t this bar too much?”
Marine looked around at the aqua-blue and green curved sofas that lined the walls, bright-yellow armchairs, glass-topped bronze tables, and white wooden venetian blinds that held the sun at bay. Ceiling fans slowly turned above their heads, giving the bar a tropical feel. She saw Eric Monnier, whom Verlaque had told her was a retired teacher, sitting alone at a round marble table under a massive black-and-white framed photograph of a Cuban farmer. He was writing in a notebook and had seemed to already have finished his champagne as there was now a glass of what looked like whiskey beside him.
“Marine,” Sylvie said.
“Oh, sorry,” Marine said. “What?”
“I have to tell you who is here, as a guest.”
“Right. Who, then?”
“Please show some enthusiasm!”
Marine laughed and sipped some champagne. “Sorry, judging from your voice it must be a movie star, and you know I don’t know much about cinema. I can’t remember the last time I went to the movies. Stars to me just seem like moderately talented people who won the beauty lottery at birth—and who have little up here . . .” she said, pointing to her head.
“Those are Hollywood stars. This person you would not have recently seen in a movie, chérie.”
“Their career is over?” Marine asked.
Sylvie frowned. “He does commercials now. I heard he was trouble on the film sets. You still haven’t guessed who . . .”
“Hey, you two,” Verlaque said, leaning down to give Sylvie the bise. “Don’t get up,” he said.
“I can’t,” Sylvie answered.
Verlaque laughed loudly and Marine beamed, pleased that her two favorite people might actually get along this week.
“I was just telling Marine that we have a French film star among us on Sordou,” Sylvie said, loudly finishing her mojito.
/> Verlaque raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“And, there’s fireworks between him and his wife—whose face has been lifted about a million times—and her surly teenage son.”
“We saw them in the lobby!” Marine said, more interested in the boy’s angst than the movie star’s wife.
“M. Verlaque, you’ll be needing some nice cool champagne,” Niki Darcette said as she handed Verlaque a coupe.
Sylvie Grassi looked at Marine and Marine whispered, “I swear she’s flirting with him!”
“Pardon?” Verlaque said.
Marine made sure that Niki was out of earshot and repeated what she had said to Sylvie.
Verlaque laughed. “That’s crazy.”
“No, it’s Sordou,” Sylvie said. Verlaque and Marine looked at Sylvie, who herself was a young-looking forty-year-old who kept her petite frame trim, much like, Verlaque thought to himself, Mlle Darcette. “The guys on staff here are all making eyes at me. I think it’s partly due to the beauty of this island, the warm sun on your skin, and how great the saltwater makes you feel once you’ve been swimming.”
Marine laughed. “And the fact that they can’t get off the island unless a boat shows up probably helps too,” she said.
Sylvie frowned but then whispered excitedly, “Don’t look now, but just behind you . . .”
Marine and Verlaque instinctively turned around to look.
Sylvie groaned and hid her face in her empty mojito glass.
“Alain Denis!” Verlaque whispered.
“He’s the only film star that I think my mother can name,” Marine said in a low voice. “She loved him in that sixties movie he did in Venice . . .”
“Acqua alta,” Sylvie supplied.
“My mother loved him too,” Verlaque said, making no bones about the fact that he was openly staring at the actor, who was at the far end of the bar ordering a drink. “The Red Night was her favorite, if I remember correctly.”
“Mine was The Longest Road Home, without a doubt,” Sylvie said. “That great scene, shot in black-and-white, where the screen is split in two by a wooden post, and he’s on the left of it, alone, but you can hear her voice, off screen, and she’s crying . . .”
Murder on the Ile Sordou Page 2